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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Richard  Petri© 


7^  — 


THE  SPELL  OF  ITALY 


On  Lake  Como 

[See  fiag-e  szs] 


Spell  of  Italy^ 

(Saroline  (Sat&oater 
CMason 


"  —  We  slope  to  Italy  at  last 
^nJ  ifouth,  bu  green  degrees.  " 

—  Bro\vkin<:. 


ILLUSTR.ATED 


Copyright,  igog 
By  L.  C.  Page  &  Company 

(incorporated  ) 

Entered  at  Stationers^  Hall,  London 

All  rights  reserved 


First  Impression,  March,  1909 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  at 
THE  COLONIAL  PRESS: 
C.H.Simonds  CSt, Co., Boston, U.S.A. 


tVUss 


TJ/'HATEVER  in  these  records  of  travel  relates  to 
Italy  and  to  historic  persons,  or  to  'persons  now  in 
the  public  eye,  is  fact,  in  so  far  as  the  author's  sincerity  of 
intention  reaches,  at  least.  All  that  which  concerns  per- 
sons non-historic  is  composite  of  fact  and  fiction.  Where 
the  lines  meet  and  mingle  in  the  sketching  of  these 
last  can  matter  little  to  the  reader. 


w 


^       1^       R       1       C       A 


o 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  rAUiii 

I.  A  Situation 1 

II.  Roses 14 

III.  New  Italy 26 

IV.  Corals  and  the  Immortal  Gods        ...  44 
V.  Balcony  Days 59 

VI.  Ravello 73 

VII.  The  Wine  of  Rome 92 

VIII.  Gossip  and  a  Garden 112 

IX.  White  and  Black 131 

X.  Augusta  Perusia 157 

XI.  Virtues  in  Relief 179 

XII.  "  The  Little  Brown  City  Vowed  to  God  "    .  230 

XIII.  "  Siena  the  Sorceress  " 250 

XIV.  The  City  of  Forestieri 267 

XV.  Verona 298 

XVI.  In  the  North 314 

XVII.  Authors  in  Italy 334 

XVIII.  In  the  Heart  of  the  Apennine        .       .       .  373 

Index 395 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

— ♦ — 

PAGE 

On  Lake  Como Frontispiece 

Map  of  Italy             vi 

Naples  from  the  Ship 13 

Where  We  Lived  in  Naples 17 

Statue  of  Count  Cavour,  Milan 29 

Giuseppe  Mazzini 31 

Statue  of  Vittorio  Emanuele  IL,  Genoa      ...  33 

Giuseppe  Garibaldi 34 

Bust  op  Homer,  Museo  Nazionale,  Naples   ...  46 

Farnese  Bull,  Museo  Nazionale,  Naples      ...  48 

Ganymede  and  the  Eagle,  Museo  Nazionale,  Naples  .  50 

House  of  the  Vettii,  Pompeii.  —  Street  in  Pompeii  .  52 

Capri 62 

Sorrento ^^ 

Tasso  before  Lenora  d'Este,  by  Kaulbach  ...  69 

positano 72 

RaVELLO,  FROM  THE  ShORE  OF  THE  GuLF  OF  SaLERNO         .  78 

The  Arch  of  Constantine.  —  Moses,  by  Michelangelo  93 

Pope  Innocent  X,  by  Velasquez 107 

St.  Michael,  by  Guido  Reni 108 

Vittorio  Emanuele  III 112 

Queen  Elena             115 

Princess  Iolande 116 

Wall  of  Rome 130 

The  Borghese  Gardens 136 

Pope  Pius  X 146 

Fountain  of  Trevi.  —  Appian  Way 148 

Gaul  Slaying  His  Wife,  Museo  Boncompagni,  Rome    .  150 

Orvieto  Cathedral 161 

iz 


List  of  Illustrations 


PAGE 

Madonna  of  Perugia,  by  Fra  Angelico  .       .       .       .174 

Pazienza,  by  Duccio 192 

PuRiTA,  BY  Duccio 206 

Street  before  Duomo,  Assisi 232 

Interior  of  the  Lower  Church,  Assisi  ....  242 

Cloister  of  San  Francesco,  Assisi 246 

Ecstasy  of  St.  Catherine,  by  "  II  Sodoma  "  .        .        .  254 

Raphael,  detail  of  Fresco  by  Pinturicchio         .       .  262 

St.  Victor,  by  "  II  Sodoma  " 264 

The  Florence  of  Dante  and  Beatrice,  by  Holiday     .  268 

Countess  Martinengo-Cesaresco 288 

Tomb  of  Can  Signorio 305 

Interior  of  the  Cathedral  of  San  Zeno,  Verona         .  311 

Burial   of   St.   Catherine,  by  Luini,  Brera  Gallery  318 
The  Virgin,  Detail  from  the  Holy  Family,  by  Luini, 

Biblioteca  Ambrosiana 320 

Beatrice  d'Este,  Leonardo,  (?)  Biblioteca  Ambrosiana  322 

Isola  Bella,  Lake  Maggiorb 327 

The  Vatican  Garden 335 

Tasso's  Oak,  Janiculum  Hill      ......  340 

Goethe  on  the  Campagna,  by  Tischbein        ,       .       .  346 

Bagni  di  Lucca 375 

Tomb  of  Ilaria 390 


THE 

SPELL    OF    ITALY 


A   SITUATION 

TRUST  Madame  is  satisfied.  I  have  given 
orders  that  all  shall  be  at  your  command. 
If  you  should  desire  a  bifstek  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night  you  have  but  —  " 
"  But,  Mr.  Zamboni,  I  never  wish  beefsteak  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,"  I  said  firmly;  "it  is  the 
size  of  the  ship  which  disappoints  me.  Our  arrange- 
ments have  all  been  made  in  such  haste  that  I 
really  did  not  look  into   the   matter,  but  — " 

"  Honestly,  you  know,"  endorsed  Fiha,  "  it  doesn't 
seem  a  bit  larger  than  a  ferry  boat.  I  wish  I  could 
see  the  passenger  list." 

"  Five  thousand  tons,  Meess,  and  most  steady, 
most  comfortable." 

"  You  see  we  have  always  been  on  those  large 
EngHsh  Uners.    They  are  so  different." 

1 


The  Spell  of  Italy 


"  Different,  Madame,  but  less  commodious.  Look 
what  is  placed  at  your  disposition :  —  Ecco  !  Cabin 
Number  seven  for  the  wardrobe  of  the  ladies  and  the 
greater  cabin,  Number  five, '  for  occupation ;  the 
entire  Salon  des  Dames  solely  for  your  use;  the 
complete  service  of  the  —  " 

"  But  how  can  you  give  us  the  sole  use  of  the 
Salon  des  Dames  ?  "  I  asked  urgently.  "  What 
will  the  other  ladies  on  board  say  to  such  an  arrange- 
ment ?  " 

Mr.  Zamboni  stood  on  the  steamer's  gang-plank, 
hat  in  hand,  persuasive  yet  visibly  uneasy.  I  stood 
with  Fiha  on  the  lower  deck,  whence  all  but  us 
seemed  to  have  fled.  The  gong  had  sounded  all 
ashore. 

Again  FiHa  clamom-ed  for  the  passenger  list. 

"  Meess,  it  is  not  yet  printed,  I  regret  to  say,"  and 
the  agent  bowed  appeasingly. 

"  There  seem  so  few  first  cabin  passengers  any 
way,"  I  murmured  anxiously.  "  How  many  are 
there?  " 

"  Madame,  the  travel  is  fight  at  the  moment. 
Eight!" 

"Eight!"  Filia  and  I  cried  simultaneously. 
"  And  how  many  of  these  are  ladies?  " 

"  Madame,  two.    Yourself  and  Meess." 

Filia  turned  white  and  I,  as  I  learned  later,  a 
fine  shade  of  hefiotrope. 


A  Situation 


''Mr.  Zamboni!"  I  cried,  "what  does  it  mean? 
We  the  only  lady  passengers!  You  should  have 
informed  us  earher." 

"  Others  were  expected,"  murmured  the  agent 
with  meekness.  "  But  there  are  five  hundred  and 
thirty-seven  of  feminine  on  board  —  " 

"  Steerage!  "  I  interrupted  indignantly. 

"  The  stewardess  is  also  feminine  and  EngUsh. 
She  will  attend  in  person  to  each  comfort.  Madame, 
I  must  tear  myself  away.  Adieu.  Bon  voyage,  my 
ladies.  You  will  find  the  Illustrissima  Principessa  as 
if  it  were  your  private  yacht.  Order  all  that  you 
will.    Fear  nothing." 

He  was  off;  so  was  the  gang-plank;  so  were  the 
cables.  Nothing  seemed  left  to  Filia  and  me  but 
to  retreat  to  our  stateroom  and  study  the  situa- 
tion. 

"  First,"  I  began  with  the  calmness  of  desperation, 
"  I  bar  the  door  against  these  foreigners.  FiHa,  picture 
those  steerage  people,  —  hundreds  upon  hundreds 
of  them,  —  all  anarchists  I  have  no  doubt !  What  if 
they  should  mutiny,  and  the  captain  speaking  not 
a  word  of  English  and  looking  himself  hke  a  Barbary 
pirate! " 

I  sank  upon  the  red  plush  sofa,  pillowed  my  head 
on  three  umbrellas  and  a  basket  of  grapes,  and  closed 
my  eyes  to  keep  out  further  images  of  terror.  Filia 
has  an  acute  and  saving  sense  of  the  ridiculous.    She 


The  Spell  of  Italy 


was  unpacking  and  now  laid  open  our  dressing-cases, 
remarking, 

"  Arm  yourself,  dearest,  for  the  mutiny.  I  think  I 
will  choose  the  curhng-iron,  and  here  is  a  brace  of 
tooth-brushes  for  you.  Let  us  barricade  the  port- 
holes with  the  roses  and  those  boxes  of  Huyler's  and 
prepare  to  die  hard.  It  is  going  to  be  a  perfect 
Clark  Russell.    A  mutiny  is  really  dehcious." 

Of  course  I  laughed,  but  with  more  nervousness 
than  mirth. 

"  Why  did  no  one  tell  us  that  these  ItaUan  ships 
were  so  terrible?  "  I  cried.  "  I  was  given  to  under- 
stand by  your  cousin  Lucretia  that  the  boats  of  this 
line  were  thoroughly  comfortable.  She  never  said 
we  were  likely  to  be  the  only  women.  Think  of  it  — 
for  two  weeks!  One  thing,  Filia,  is  settled :  we  never 
open  that  door  save  to  take  in  food,  and  no  one  of 
these  impossible  Latins,  with  their  corrupt  principles, 
shall  ever  see  our  faces  —  " 

"Unveiled!  Quite  so,  mamma.  We  will  live  be- 
hind the  purdah  and  play  we  were  Oriental  beauties, 
—  Pearls  of  Womankind,  Lalla  Rookhs,  Zuleikas 
and  Zuleimas  —  " 

"  Hush,  Filia!  "  I  cried  imperatively.  She  tm-ned 
quickly,  noting  my  change  of  tone.  I  had  risen  and 
looked  in  the  glass.  The  reflection  of  a  careworn 
face,  white  hair  and  a  plain  black  bonnet  had  given 
me  a  sudden  revulsion  of  fcehng. 


A  Situation 


"  My  dear,  I  forgot  that  I  was  fifty !  The  danger  is 
less  by  half  at  least  than  I  imagined." 

As  I  spoke  the  absurdity  of  my  agitation  struck  me. 
I  laughed  aloud. 

"  The  tea  is  ready  for  you  and  Miss  in  the  Ladies' 
Cabin,  ma'am." 

A  woman's  voice  with  strong  Cockney  accent  spoke 
the  words  at  our  much  barred  door.  Fiha  shot  the 
bolts  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye. 

"  A  cup  of  tea  will  bring  you  to  surrender  the 
citadel  quicker  than  a  cannon,  won't  it?  "  she  mur- 
mured mischievously. 

The  stewardess  stood  in  the  corridor,  in  the  neatest 
of  caps  and  aprons,  a  smile  on  her  comely  English  face. 

"  It's  good  to  hear  you  laughing  that  cheerful, 
ma'am,"  she  said  in  a  substantial,  purring  tone  of 
voice.  "  Would  you  like  your  tea  now  better  here 
or  just  across  in  the  cabin?  My  orders  are  that 
whatever  you  like  you  are  to  have,  and  I'm  to  be  the 
same  as  your  maid,  having  no  other  ladies  to  see  to, 
ma'am." 

A  few  moments  later  Filia  and  I  faced  each  other 
in  a  charming  boudoir  hung  with  blue  tapestry  and 
furnished  with  deep,  luxurious  easy  chairs  covered 
in  dark  blue  leather.  Between  us  was  a  polished 
mahogany  table  on  which  a  dainty  and  immaculate 
tea  service  twinkled  in  the  afternoon  sun  pouring 
through  the  open  port-holes. 


6  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  How  deliciously  fresh  that  lemon  smells,  Filia," 
I  said  as  I  filled  her  cup. 

"  And  what  enchanting  little  cakes,"  she  added. 
"  You  are  calmer  now,  dear,"  she  went  on  with  mock 
pathos.  "  I  am  so  thankful  they  did  not  mutiny 
until  after  tea." 

"  Filia,  if  you  poke  fun  at  your  aged  mother  some- 
thing very  bad  will  happen  to  you,"  I  returned  with 
severity,  my  spirits  rising,  however,  as  the  soothing 
effect  of  the  tea  made  itself  felt.  The  alarming 
nature  of  our  position  seemed  less  and  less  obvious. 
Still  I  shuddered  shghtly  as  two  Catholic  priests  in 
broad  hats  passed  silently  through  the  corridor. 

"  Yes,"  reflected  Filia;  "  we  are  plainly  surrounded 
with  Jesuits.  Very  possibly  they  are  agents  of  the 
Inquisition.    Has  that  occurred  to  you?  " 

"  No,  it  has  not,"  I  replied  with  some  acrimony. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  you  have  so  undisciplined 
an  imagination.  My  own  is  kept  under  control  "  — 
here  I  caught  FiHa's  saucy  mouth  trembhng  with 
laughter  —  "  except  when  the  provocation  is  unprec- 
edented. Now  listen  to  me,  my  dear.  I  admit  that 
there  may  not  be  a  —  mutiny,  you  know,"  —  this  I 
slurred  over,  not  caring  to  emphasize  the  idea  partic- 
ularly, —  "  and  in  all  probabiHty  we  shall  be  well 
cared  for  and  all  that.  I  judge  by  this  tea  service 
that  we  shall  be  comfortable,  as  Lucrctia  said.  But 
nothing  can  do  away  with  the  fact  that  we  are  in 


A  Situation 


a  seriously  embarrassing  situation,  calling  for  ex- 
treme reserve,  for  —  " 

"  Eternal  vigilance?  "   suggested  Filia  tentatively, 

"  Yes,  all  that  sort  of  thing.  About  us  are  hordes 
of  foreigners,  —  literally  hordes,  —  aliens,  —  men  of 
the  Latin  race  —  " 

"  I  suppose  that  will  be  the  case  too  when  we  get 
to  Italy,"  commented  Fiha  at  this  point  of  my  ad- 
dress, musingly.  "  Perhaps  it  is  as  well  to  get  a  little 
used  to  them  on  the  way." 

"  It  must  be  altogether  different  on  land." 

"  That  is,  you  give  the  poor  Latins  a  right  to  the 
land  but  not  to  the  sea.  That  seems  to  me  logical, 
lady.    Proceed  with  the  *  situation.'  " 

"  The  situation,  Filia,  may  have  its  humourous 
side,  but  it  has  another.  I  have  now  thought  out 
our  line  of  action  dehberately,  and  I  must  beg  you 
to  follow  my  \vish  in  this  matter." 

"  I  follow,  darUng.  Out  with  it!  You  can't  think 
how  I  tremble  when  you  use  that  tone." 

"It  is  simply  that  we  keep  wholly  to  ourselves  on 
this  singular  voyage.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  be  rude, 
my  dear,  to  any  one.  I  shall  myself  be  perfectly 
civil  to  those  Jesuits,  to  every  one,  however  extraor- 
dinary —  " 

"  In  our  eyes,"  put  in  Filia.  I  paid  no  attention 
to  the  interruption. 

''  But  let  us  show  from  the  first  that  we  wish  to 


The  Spell  of  Italy 


keep  entirely  to  ourselves,  to  form  absolutely  no  ac- 
quaintance. We  have  books  and  magazines  in  abun- 
dance, fruit  and  flowers,  —  every  resource  in  fact,  — 
in  our  own  cabin.  We  need  never  enter  the  dining- 
saloon  or  meet  these  foreigners.  Our  meals  can  be 
served  regularly  in  this  really  beautiful  little  room 
over  which  we  have  undisputed  control.  For  society 
we  have  each  other.    What  more  do  we  need?  " 

"  Nothing,  I  am  sure,"  rejoined  Filia  promptly 
but  without  enthusiasm.  "  Did  you  notice  that  very 
good-looking  man  who  came  on  board  just  ahead  of 
us?" 

"  Yes,  I  noticed  him,  Filia,  His  looks  are  cer- 
tainly against  him.  It  is  suspicious  in  itself  to  be  as 
handsome  as  that.    Only  Latins  are." 

"  I  think  he  is  a  Greek." 

"  How  surprising,"  I  murmured,  confused  at  the 
idea;  "  I  did  not  know  that  any  one  really  was 
Greek,  outside  of  statues  and  Bohn's  classic  library, 
you  know.    What  put  such  an  idea  in  your  head?  " 

"  I  read  the  name  on  his  suit-case.  It  was  Con- 
stantine  Aztalos.  Clearly  Greek.  Greek  was  always 
harder  than  Latin  in  college.  I  wonder  how  it  is  in 
life." 

Feeling  wholly  unequal  to  coping  with  a  new 
nationality,  I  effected  a  rapid  diversion. 

"  Actually,  Filia,"  I  exclaimed,  looking  through  a 
port-hole,  "  there   is    Liberty  enlightening   already ! 


A  Situation 


We  may  be  sea-sick  at  any  moment  now  in  this  cockle- 
shell.    Let  us  go  back  to  om*  state-room  and  un- 
pack." 
Filia  rose  up  obediently. 

All  this  was  on  the  afternoon  of  April  nineteenth. 
On  the  twenty-third  of  the  same  month  at  the  same 
time  of  day  the  "  situation  "  among  the  first  cabin 
passengers  of  the  Illustrissima  Prindpessa  presented 
a  striking  contrast. 

We  were  assembled  with  frank  and  unconstrained 
sociability  for  afternoon  tea  in  the  large  dining- 
saloon.  I  was  hostess  and  sat  in  some  state  at  the 
head  of  a  well-equipped  tabic  pouring  tea  for  the 
Italian  priests,  or  the  padres,  as  we  now  called  them, 
while  a  Congregational  clergyman  from  New  Jersey 
turned  the  leaves  of  his  Baedeker  at  one  side  of  the 
table.  He  decHned  tea,  being  tiinid  as  regarded  his 
nervous  system.  The  padres  may  not  have  liked  the 
tea,  but  they  would  on  no  account  have  decHned  it, 
being  offered  them  by  a  lady  whom  it  was  plainly 
theirs  to  reverence  and  follow.  (I  was  never  able  to 
discover  whether  they  were  really  Jesuits,  nor  in 
fact  what  Jesuits  really  are,  but  the  word  is  always 
dramatic  in  its  suggestion.) 

At  the  piano  sat  Filia  playing  the  accompaniment 
for  "  Sole  mio,"  which  Signor  Aztalos,  arrayed  in 
white  Unen,  stood  by  to  teach  her.    That  gentleman. 


10  The  Spell  of  Italy 

who  was  now  known  by  us  to  be  a  Greek  diplomatist 
attached  in  some  sort  to  the  legation  at  Washington, 

and  who  always  "  crosses  "  by  the Line  because 

of  the  absence  of  a  crowd,  appeared  to  speak  every 
modern  language  with  equal  facility,  but  Italian  by 
preference. 

This  comprised  the  entire  personelle  of  first  cabin 
passengers  save  for  two  quite  impossible  birds  of  a 
feather  who  always  flocked  together  and  who  were 
known  among  us  as  the  Barbarian  and  Scythian. 
We  were  in  fact  now  become  a  compact  little  family 
circle,  and  as  I  look  back  I  confess  to  some  confusion 
in  seeing  how  swiftly  I  must  have  laid  aside  those 
stern  and  strenuous  resolves  with  which  the  voyage 
began. 

We  had  followed  my  programme  of  rigid  exclusive- 
ness  faithfully  for  twenty-four  hours,  during  which  we 
had  rough  and  rainy  weather  and  were  glad  to  keep 
our  berths.  But  when  the  sun  had  shone  on  a  blue  sea 
and  Filia  and  I  had  begun  pacing  the  open  deck  and 
meeting  the  courteous  greetings  and  kindly  solici- 
tude of  our  clerical  fellow  passengers,  the  so-called 
"  situation  "  had  seemed  to  evaporate  like  the  mists 
of  yesterday.  I  reahzed  the  solidarity  of  mankind 
which  at  first  had  rather  escaped  me,  and  I  found 
great  satisfaction  in  discussing  schemes  for  Church 
unity  with  the  padres  who  were  sincere  and  benev- 
olent gentlemen.    They  had  been  engaged  for  many 


A  Situation  11 


years  in  hard,  self-sacrificing  laboui'  among  their 
countrymen  in  New  York  and  were  now  returning 
to  Italy  for  well-earned  rest. 

The  plaintive  strains  of  "Sole  mio,"  in  which  Fiha's 
contralto  voice  mingled  rather  prettily  with  the 
baritone  of  Signor  Aztalos,  died  away,  and  that 
gentleman  came  to  my  side  bowing  in  what  I  took 
to  be  a  courtly  manner  and  humbly  requesting  tea 
for  the  Signorina  and  himself. 

"  And  I  have  a  little  plan  to  propose,  madame," 
he  went  on  with  a  smile  which  a  graven  image  must 
have  found  engaging,  "  regarding  your  daugh- 
ter." 

This  set  me  rather  in  a  flutter  inwardly,  but  I  con- 
cealed the  fact  by  a  serious  inclination  of  my  head 
and  he  proceeded. 

"  I  find  the  Signorina  already  well  grounded  in  the 
Italian  grammar,  but  not  as  yet  able  to  speak  the 
language  with  perfect  ease.  It  might  be  a  convenience 
in  your  journeyings  through  Italy  if  one  of  you 
could  command  the  language.  It  would  be  to  me 
highest  honour  to  instruct  the  Signorina  regularly 
while  on  board.  She  is  remarkably  quick  of  percep- 
tion, brilHant  indeed.  She  could,  in  two  weeks, 
speak  admirably." 

"  You  are  certainly  very  kind." 

"  I  am  kind  to  myself,  madame,  for  an  occupation 
so  interesting,  —  could  it  do  oth(>r  than  dispel  the 


12  The  Spell  of  Italy 

ennui  of  the  voyage?  I  would  not,  however,  venture 
to  ask  such  a  favour  had  I  not  spent  the  greater  part 
of  my  Hfe  in  Rome,  ItaUan  is  to  me  Hke  my  native 
tongue." 

As  may  be  foreseen  I  consented,  for  Filia  stood 
just  behind,  her  face  vivid  with  enthusiasm  for  the 
proposed  lessons.  They  began,  I  remember,  that 
afternoon,  and  were  given  regularly  three  times  a 
day  during  the  voyage. 

It  may  be  thought  that  I  am  a  person  of  little 
firmness  of  character,  from  the  first  pages  of  this 
chapter,  but  the  resolution  which  I  formed  at  the 
moment  of  consenting  to  the  project  of  Italian  lessons 
under  our  young  diplomatist  remained  unbroken. 
In  brief,  as  a  duenna  I  was  inflexible.  With  my 
knitting  or  my  novel  I  sat  untiring  and  presided  over 
the  long-drawn  lessons,  the  endless  discussion  of 
Vidioma  gentile,  the  terza  rima,  the  lei  and  voi.  Filia 
seemed  to  me  as  a  pupil  intelligent  but  not  docile; 
her  instructor,  aside  from  his  conspicuous  good  looks, 
was  beyond  criticism.  I  looked  on  amazed  at  my 
daughter's  rapid  progress,  since,  before  we  passed 
Gibraltar,  they  were  deep  in  Dante,  and  il  Paradiso 
seemed  well  in  sight. 

And  so  it  fell  out  that  the  Illustrissima  Principessa 
was  turned  into  an  Academy  on  that  April  voyage. 
There  was  no  mutiny  and  no  danger,  at  least  none 
visible.     The  two  American  women,  alone  among 


A  Situation  13 


the  "  alien  hordes,"  found  themselves  treated  Uke 
princesses  most  illustrious  during  the  golden  days  in 
which  they  sailed  on  toward  Italy  and  the  realiza- 
tion of  the  dream  of  a  lifetime. 


II 


ROSES 


;LISS  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive,  Filia, 
but  to  be  young  was  very  heaven  I'  " 
"  Yes,  mother." 

Filia  murmured  the  respectful  response 
drowsily,  then, her  eyes  suddenly  pierced  by  the  morn- 
ing light  streaming  through  two  tall  casements  instead 
of  two  small  port-holes,  she  sat  up  in  her  bed  in  the 
corner  and  cried: 

"  Are  we  at  anchor?  " 

"  Filia,  we  are  in  Italy!  This  is  not  a  ship;  it  is  a 
palace,  or  was.  Look  at  those  frescoes  overhead  if 
you  doubt  it.  There  is  no  deck,  but  there  is  a  balcony. 
Neither  the  ceiling  nor  the  floor  moves  a  particle. 
The  floor  is  of  brick,  but  there  are,  as  at  sea,  two 
washing-stands  and  plenty  of  towels.  The  room  is 
simply  vast.  There  is  an  electric  bell  over  your 
berth.    Press  the  button,  dear,  and  see  what  happens." 

What  happened  was  that  the  door  presently  opened 
and  a  cheerful  Httle  maid  with  frizzy  light  hair  and 
an  irresistible  smile  entered  with  a  silver  tray  covered 

14 


Roses  15 

with  spotless  linen.  On  the  tray  were  pots  of  coffee 
and  milk,  pats  of  fresh  butter  and  crusty  rolls. 

"  Buon  giorno!"  said  the  httle  maid,  meeting  a 
cordial  buon  giorno  in  return  from  Filia.  This  ap- 
peared to  fill  her  with  highest  glee,  for  she  dimpled 
and  cuddled  herself  in  ecstasy  as  she  placed  the  tray 
before  me,  remarking: 

"  Per  la  Signora." 

Then  she  darted  back  and  returned  with  a  second 
tray  precisely  like  the  first. 

"  Per  la  Signorina,"  and  deposited  it  with  looks 
of  flattering  devotion  on  FiHa's  bed. 

We  had  arrived  in  Naples  late  in  the  day  previous. 
When  the  various  ceremonies  connected  with  landing 
were  over  and  we  had  been  driven  in  a  ridiculous 
little  go-cart  of  a  cab  with  a  tiny  rat-tailed  pony  at  a 
mad  pace  thi'ough  miles  of  incredible  picturesqueness, 
to  the  Pensione  Fehce,'^  we  were  too  tired  for  any- 
thing but  to  tumble  into  our  beds.  We  had  faith  to 
beheve  that  Naples  would  last  until  to-morrow,  in 
spite  of  Vesuvius. 

It  had  really  been  an  affecting  hour,  the  hour  of 
leaving  the  Illustrissima  Principessa  and  breaking 
the  circle  of  our  happy  company  for  ever.  The  padres 
had  blessed  us  both  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  then 
dashed  in  their  long  black  skirts  for  the  night  train 
for  Rome.    The  Congregational  clergyman  from  New 

'  The  Pensione  cannot  be  found  under  this  name. 


16  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Jersey  had  consulted  me  anxiously  as  to  the  possible 
dangers  of  driving  to  his  hotel  through  the  streets  of 
Naples  after  nightfall,  and  I  had  given  him  womanly 
cheer  and  encouragement,  also  an  address  for  gloves 
for  his  wife,  one  for  corals  for  his  next-to-the-eldest 
daughter,  and  so,  farewell.  Meanwhile  Fiha  was 
having  her  last  Italian  conversation  lesson  with 
Signor  Aztalos,  and  her  first  one  unchaperoned,  as  I 
was  forced  to  hasten  forward  with  a  customs  officer. 
Afterwards  it  occurred  to  me  that  neither  appeared 
as  fluent  as  usual  and,  when  Signor  Aztalos  put  us 
into  our  cab,  I  perceived  that  he  was  plunged  in 
despondency. 

He  told  me  that  he  should  see  us  in  Naples,  with 
my  permission,  once  at  least,  hopefully  more.  All 
depended  upon  the  despatches  awaiting  him  at  his 
hotel.  If  they  said  "  Paris,"  he  must  go  the  next 
day,  if  "  Athens,"  he  might  delay  a  Httle. 

"  You  have  been  extremely  kind,  Mr.  Aztalos,"  I 
said  benignantly,  "  I  hope  it  will  be  Athens." 

He  bowed  ceremoniously  and  kissed  my  hand,  but 
his  eyes  sought  Filia's.  I  am  sure  they  said  "  Athens  " 
too. 

And  now  it  was  another  day  and  our  first  day  of 
discovery,  of  adventure,  of  impressions  on  Italian 
soil.  Very  possibly  Filia  was  less  excited  by  the 
fact  than  I,  for  she  had  not  longed  for  Italy  and 
dreamed  of  it  so  many  years  by  half.    Besides,  I  ob- 


Roses  17 

serve  in  young  things  it  is  persons  that  awaken  en- 
thusiasm in  a  higher  degree  than  places.  However, 
when  circumstances  permitted  us  to  emerge  on  our 
balcony,  —  breakfast  and  toilet  over,  —  and  we  saw 
lying  below  us  the  marvellously  coloured  crescent  of 
Naples,  and  beyond,  the  blue  water  of  the  bay  with 
the  peninsula  of  Posilipo  at  our  right  and  across, 
half  hidden  in  opaline  haze,  the  far  reach  of  Sorrento, 
with  Vesuvius  purple  and  majestic  brooding  over  all, 
we  both  surrendered  without  reserve  or  condition  to 
the  spell  of  Italy. 

"  It  is  so  beautiful  that  I  cannot  bear  it,"  mur- 
mured Fiha. 

The  air  which  blew  gently  from  the  bay  upon  our 
faces  was  limpid,  fragrant  with  orange  blossoms  and 
of  a  blandness  indescribable.  For  once  a  sense  of  utter 
perfection  in  the  adjustment  of  the  human  machine 
to  its  environment  mastered  my  sense.  The  glory  and 
the  joy  of  the  scene  cancelled  for  an  instant  every 
pain  of  the  past,  eveiy  fear  for  the  future.  Then  I 
comprehended  those  words  of  Goethe  which  hereto- 
fore had  puzzled  me:  "  You  may  say,  paint,  describe 
as  you  wdll,  but  here  is  more  than  all !  The  shore,  the 
bay,  the  gulf,  the  castles  and  the  sky !  And  Vesuvius ! 
He  who  can  remember  Naples  can  never  more  be 
quite  unhappy." 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  we  stepped  out  on  the 
street  and  started  for  our  first  walk. 


18  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  Remember  our  motto!  "  said  Filia,  running  after 
me.  She  had  been  detained  by  the  portiere,  who  ap- 
peared to  discern  in  her  some  species  of  holy  virgin 
and  wished  to  pass  her  hands  in  a  reverent  caress 
across  the  soft  fabric  of  her  kittenish  gray  gown, 

"  Our  motto?  Oh,  yes!  '  Fey  ce  que  vous  voudras.' 
Let  us  never  forget  it." 

Do  what  you  choose,  —  that  is  the  EngHsh  for 
the  old  Fi'ench  saying  which  we  had  taken  as  the 
watchword  of  our  Italian  journey.  Nothing  would 
we  do  because  the  law  demands  it  or  the  court 
awards  it;  nothing  because  Baedeker  stars  it  or 
Cousin  Lucretia  insists.  Our  own  impulse  was  to  be 
our  only  guide.  Because  this  was  the  principle  on 
which  we  chose  to  act  we  had  diligently  avoided  the 
companionship  of  friends  and  relatives,  however 
judicious,  capable,  and  intelhgent. 

Filia  held  a  map  open  in  her  hand, 

"  Tliis  street,"  she  said, ''  will  lead  us  down  to  the 
Villa  Nazionale,  the  park  along  the  shore,  and  to  the 
express  office  for  letters.  It  must  if  we  follow  it  long 
enough.    Avanti!" 

On  we  went,  meeting  at  every  step  unaccustomed 
and  interesting  sights,  our  sense  of  the  picturesque 
stirred  to  the  utmost.  Suddenly  we  saw  before  us 
an  imposing  entrance  to  what  appeared  a  park. 
Could  this  be  the  Villa  Nazionale?  Fiha  consulted 
her  map.    No,  we  were  half  a  mile  short  of  that,  but 


Roses  19 

this  might  be  quite  as  attractive.  There  was  a 
fascinating  lodge  and  the  great  iron  gates  stood  wide 
open.  Beyond  we  could  catch  ghmpses  of  flower 
lined  avenues  of  stately  pines.  We  stepped  within 
the  gates,  but  were  met  at  once  by  a  portiere  who,  to 
Filia's  question  repHed,  ''  Privat,"  but  indicated  that 
we  might  advance  a  little  further  and  take  a  look  at 
the  attractions  within. 

A  few  paces  brought  us  into  sight  of  a  charming 
white  villa  rising  from  various  levels  of  marble  railed 
terraces  to  an  imposing  height.  We  stopped,  seeing 
plainly  a  private  residence,  yet  halted  a  moment  to 
read  the  motto  carved  on  the  marble  cornice  above 
the  door:  "  This  house  is  a  refuge  of  peace  from 
wrath  and  wrong." 

As  we  stood  we  became  aware  of  a  lady  at  an  upper 
window  watching  us.  As  we  turned  to  go  back, 
thanking  the  portiere  for  the  liberty  vouchsafed  us, 
we  saw  this  lady  beckon  to  the  man,  and  heard  a 
rapid  order  by  her.  Instantly  liis  manner  changed. 
From  the  guard  he  now  became  the  cicerone.  With 
respectful  courtesy  he  invited  us,  to  our  amazement, 
to  enter  the  house.  We  followed  him  into  a  stately 
pillared  vestibule  and  up  a  white  marble  staircase, 
then  out  upon  an  upper  level  on  which  was  a  large 
and  most  entrancing  flower  garden.  Two  sides  of  it 
were  enclosed  by  a  wall  at  least  twenty  feet  in  height, 
and  this  wall, '  throughout  its  entire  reach,  was  cov- 


20  The  Spell  of  Italy 

ered  with  roses.  Never  had  we  dreamed  of  such  pro- 
fusion and  splendoui"  of  bloom.  There  were  tea-roses 
in  every  variety,  Alan  Richardson,  Marechal  Niel, 
damask  roses,  blush  roses,  white  roses,  indeed  all  the 
roses  we  all  love  best,  and  all  pouring  out  upon  the 
air  their  intoxicating  fragrance. 

We  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  gay  parterres  of  Mar- 
guerites and  other  flowers  and  gazed  enraptured 
about  us. 

As  we  stood  we  were  joined  by  the  lady  whom  we 
had  seen  at  the  window.  She  was  the  Signora  L.,  the 
mistress  of  the  villa.  My  greeting  was  given  by  my 
obvious  delight,  but  Filia  was  able  to  stammer  a 
few  words  of  Italian,  thanks  to  her  Greek  instructor. 
A  distinguished  looking  gentleman  had  appeared, 
greeting  us  with  impressive  courtesy,  and  we  seemed  in 
a  fair  way  to  be  taken  fully  into  the  family  circle. 
This  was  Signor  Vincenzo  L.,  Avocato,  and  at  his 
orders  a  gardener  now  began  cutting  roses  for  us  by 
the  dozen,  the  fairest  and  most  fragrant.  While  this 
went  forward  we  were  taken  into  the  house  and  con- 
ducted to  an  enormous  hbrary,  lined  with  portraits, 
busts  and  massive  cases  of  vellum  bound  books. 
The  floor  was  of  pohshcd  mosaic,  the  furniture 
richly  carved,  antique  and  imposing;  the  whole  place 
expressed  profoundly  the  traditions  of  a  learned  and 
noble  hnc.  Here  we  sat  down  and  made  sliift  to 
converse  in  broken  accents  with  the  heads  of  the 


Roses  21 

house  for  a  little,  then  departed  with  most  cordial 
good  wishes  from  the  Signor  and  Signora,  and  straight- 
way returned  to  the  Pensione  Fehce,  followed  by  the 
gardener,  bearing  in  our  train  arms  full  of  roses. 

"  If  this  is  Italy  and  if  these  are  Latins,"  cried 
FiHa,  as  soon  as  we  were  alone  in  our  chamber, 
arranging  our  roses,  "  I  say.  Why  sigh  for  Anglo- 
Saxons  and  why  return  to  Anglo-Saxony?  " 

"  But  it  is  really  fairy-land,  you  know,"  I  mur- 
mured vaguely, 

"  '  For  Kilmeny  has  been  she  does  not  know  where, 
And  Kilmeny  has  seen  what  she  cannot  declare.' " 

A  knock  at  the  door  then,  and  Mariette,  our  zealous 
little  maid,  handed  in  a  box  and  a  note.  Filia  looked 
over  my  shoulder  as  I  read,  her  hands  full  of  roses. 

"  To  arms !  They  come !  The  Greek,^—  the  Greek !  " 
she  quoted  quietly,  but  the  reflection  of  the  roses 
seemed  to  tinge  her  face. 

Signor  Aztalos  was  desole  to  be  obliged  to  leave  for 
Paris  in  the  evening.  Would  the  ladies  do  him  the 
honour  to  drive  with  him  at  three,  and  would  the 
Signora  permit  the  Signorina  to  receive  these  few 
flowers? 

While  I  wrote  a  hne  of  acceptance  Fiha  opened 
the  box  and  dropped  into  a  chair,  her  lap  full  of  mag- 
nificent crimson  Jacqueminots. 


22  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  '  It  was  roses,  roses  all  the  way, 

With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad,' " 

she  cried.  The  room  looked  indeed  like  a  flower  show, 
and  thus  far  we  did  not  feel  painfully  conscious  that 
we  were  among  alien  hordes  and  corrupt  civilizations. 

When  Signor  Aztalos  presented  himself  in  the 
afternoon  I  concluded  at  once  that  he  had  not  found 
Naples  thus  far  as  dizzily  delightful  as  had  we.  Al- 
together I  felt  a  curious  change  in  him.  On  the  ship 
he  had  always  worn  suits  of  spotless  white  linen  and 
had  borne  himself  with  the  fine  freedom  of  Mercury, 
new-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill;  I  had  fancied 
about  him  then  the  half  pagan  joy  of  life  of  his  Greek 
ancestry;  at  least  to  us  he  was  a  being  of  extraordi- 
nary beauty,  brilliance,  and  charm,  detached  from  all 
the  ordinary  cares  and  pursuits  of  hfe,  given  over 
wholly  to  guiding  Filia  in  the  primrose  paths  of 
Italian  poetry. 

Now  he  wore  business  clothes,  a  business  expression, 
and  a  manner  wholly  practical  and  unclassic,  not  in 
the  least  suggestive  of  Mercury  or  any  other  god  or 
demigod.  Curiously  enough,  this  change,  while  it 
rendered  the  man  less  captivating  to  my  imagination, 
gave  him  a  more  formidable  effect  of  reality.  I 
would  have  preferred  to  keep  him  in  the  department 
of  the  poetry  of  life  rather  than  that  of  prose. 

We  drove  by  the  Villa  Nazionalc  to  the  Aquarium, 


Roses  23 

which  Signor  Aztalos  said  it  was  necessary  to  see  in 
order  to  get  your  degree  of  having  visited  Naples. 

"  Why,  I  cannot  imagine,"  he  said  as  he  ushered  us 
into  its  gloomy  enclosure,  "  for  it  is  certainly  excess- 
ively dull." 

I  exclaimed  in  protest,  having  found  my  way 
quickly  to  the  Medusae,  while  a  little  scream  of 
amazement  from  Filia  announced  that  she  had  dis- 
covered the  devilfish  clawing  the  water  with  its 
horrid  tentacles.  Between  the  singular  ghostly 
beauty  of  the  Medusae  and  the  grisly  fascination  of 
the  octopi  I  forgot  everything  for  a  few  minutes 
and  was  surprised  to  discover  myself  alone.  I 
hurried  on  to  the  other  side,  where  I  found  my  com- 
panions engaged  in  pointedly  not  looking  at  the 
fishes.  They  did  not,  however,  appear  in  the  least 
bored,  or  disturbed  by  my  absence.  I  suggested  that 
it  might  be  best  to  proceed,  and  after  we  had  dis- 
cussed the  fishes,  in  which  discussion  I  was  the  only 
one  to  manifest  marked  interest  or  intelligence,  I 
sought  enlightenment  as  we  drove  on  of  Signor 
Aztalos  regarding  carabinieri  and  bersaglieri.  The 
former,  in  cocked  hats  and  red  striped  uniform,  had 
struck  my  eye  as  picturesque  until  the  waving  cocks' 
plumes  of  the  latter  had  asserted  superior  claims  to 
attention.  I  learned  from  our  friend  that  the  cara- 
binieri are  the  regular  police  force,  while  the  bersa- 
glieri are  a  selected  guard  detailed  for  more  distin- 


24  The  Spell  of  Italy 

guished  service.  They  usually  appear  mounted  on 
bicycles,  their  shining  plumes  flashing  and  stream- 
ing in  the  wind  to  great  effect. 

We  drove  on  through  the  Chiaia,  with  its  gay  little 
shops,  its  crowds  of  people,  the  flower-sellers  tossing 
great  bundles  of  roses  into  the  carriage,  the  oflBcers 
staring  at  us  with  undisguised  but  not  disrespectful 
curiosity,  the  air  resonant  with  the  cries  of  hucksters 
and  cocchieri.  Presently  we  emerged  on  the  broader 
Toledo,  where  all  Naples  at  that  hour  seemed  faring 
forth  in  cheerful  splendour  of  frank  pleasure-seeking. 
All  about  us  was  motion,  life,  gaiety,  and  Filia  and  I 
enjoyed  the  essentially  foreign  quahty  of  the  scene 
like  two  children,  to  the  satisfaction  of  our  Greek 
friend. 

As  we  turned  a  little  later  into  the  Corso  Vittorio 
Emanuele,  Filia  remarked, 

"  Oh,  there  is  Victor  Immanuel  again !  Such  a 
sense  of  confusion  as  always  seizes  me  when  I  see  that 
name !  I  know  nothing  about  him.  Nero  is  the  most 
recent  Italian  politician  with  whom  I  have  a  speaking 
acquaintance.  How  did  Italy  happen,  anyway,  Si- 
gnor  Aztalos?  " 

"  New  Italy,  I  take  it?  "  responded  he  gravely,  a 
smile  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  precisely.  I  hear  and  hear  of  New  Italy,  but 
it  is  always  a  mystery  to  me." 

"  Do  you  really  want  to  know,  or  is  it  the  American 


Roses  25 

young  lady's  \dvacity  which  speaks  and  then  for- 
gets? " 

Filia's  face  expressed  a  shght  uncertainty  at  this 
searching  question, 

"  Even  if  it  is  that  on  my  daughter's  part,  Signore," 
I  interposed,  ''  it  is  something  serious  on  mine.  I 
am  wofully  ignorant  of  ItaHan  history.  In  fact  I  am 
afraid,  beyond  wearing  a  red  flannel  '  Garibaldi ' 
when  I  was  a  child,  I  have  never  come  into  touch  with 
the  struggle  for  freedom  over  here." 

"  If  you  will  take  five  o'clock  tea  on  the  Bertolini 
terrace,  Signora,  we  can  have  one  small  discussion  of 
New  Italy  over  the  tea  cups." 

Filia  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Just  the  thing!  I  was  afraid  I  should  be  expected 
to  begin  looking  attentive  now  when  I  want  to  watch 
both  sides  of  the  street  for  every  pretty  Italian  woman 
and  see  how  she  is  dressed.  Why  are  they  all  fat,  I 
wonder,  and  why  do  they  put  on  so  much  powder? 
They  certainly  do  not  dress  as  well  as  —  "  here  she 
broke  off. 

"  American  women,"  put  in  Aztalos.  "  No  women 
do.    That  understands  itself." 

FiHa  flashed  a  small  smile  at  him  which  seemed  to 
mark  a  degree  of  acquaintance  surprising  to  me. 


Ill 

NEW   ITALY 

»0W  did  New  Italy  happen?  Is  that  the 
question,  cara  Signorina?  " 
FiHa  signified  that  such  was  the  question. 
We  sat  in  afternoon  coolness  on  the  broad 
terrace  of  the  Bertolini,  literally  overhanging  all  Na- 
ples and  confronting  Vesuvius.  The  first  ecstatic  thrill 
of  attack  was  over;  we  had  mastered  our  emotions 
sufficiently  to  order  the  tea  and  curious,  unwholesome 
cakes  for  which  the  Bertolini  is  famous.  We  had 
partaken  of  them  and  of  the  glory  of  the  Bay  to- 
gether until  now,  satiate  of  both,  I  had  reminded 
Signor  Aztalos  of  his  agreement  to  "  explain  Italy," 
and  FiUa  had  insisted  that  her  last  lesson  must  be  a 
lesson  in  history. 

"  It  will  not  be  necessary  to  go  back  to  Romulus 
and  Remus,"  she  now  remarked,  "  there  might  not 
be  time." 

"  Thanks,  Signorina.  You  relieve  me  of  a  great 
load.  We  will  consider  another  illustrious  Gemini  — 
Garibaldi  and  Mazzini  —  instead." 

26 


New  Italy  27 

''  Those  two  men  really  created  modern  Italy,  is 
it  not  so?  "  I  asked, 

Aztalos  shook  his  head. 

"  They  spoke  with  power,  madame,  to  the  passion 
of  the  people,  to  the  heart  of  them,  but  it  was  Cavour 
who  spoke  to  the  head,  to  the  brain  of  all  Europe. 
Without  Cavour  there  would  have  been  no  United 
Italy.  You  may  think  I  overrate  diplomacy.  It  has 
its  place.  I  will  proceed.  The  ladies  have  the  geog- 
raphy of  the  peninsula  doubtless  clearly  enough  in 
mind?  "  Here  Aztalos  began  sketcliing  a  map  on  the 
tea  cloth  with  the  point  of  a  fork.  "  Savoy  is  in  this 
northwestern  corner  of  Piedmont,  Piedmont  in  the 
northwestern  corner  of  Italy;  Turin,  the  capital  and 
Cavour's  birthplace,  in  the  centre  of  it;  Genoa,  Maz- 
zini's  birthplace,  on  the  Ligurian  coast,  due  south. 
Nice,  Garibaldi's  birthplace,  now  French,  then  ItaUan, 
to  the  west.  You  can  fancy  a  triangle  of  power 
drawn  there,  Turin,  Nice,  Genoa  at  the  angles.  Five 
years,  from  1805  to  1810,  produced  those  three 
giants.  God  was  getting  ready,  one  might  say. 
Also  He  had  been  getting  ready  for  eight  or  nine 
centuries  a  sturdy  stock  of  princes  to  captain  the 
new  nation.  I  speak  of  the  House  of  Savoy,  since 
1861  the  royal  house  of  Italy,  but  before  that  only 
the  royal  house  of  Piedmont." 

"  It  has  always  puzzled  me,  Mr.  Aztalos,"  I  inter- 
posed, "  that  the  House  of  Savoy  should  have  been 


28  The  Spell  of  Italy 

exalted  over  all  other  rulers  in  Italy.  Will  you  make 
it  clear  to  me?  Had  they  such  remarkable  natural 
superiority?  " 

"To  begin  with,  Signora,  Piedmont  alone  was  a 
free  state.  Also,  while  the  Savoy  princes  have  not 
been  poets,  artists^  saints  or  monks,  they  have  ever 
been  men.  They  are  of  tough  fibre,  hardy,  tenacious, 
clear-headed,  with  a  talent  for  the  business  of  king- 
ship. Also  they  have  been  on  the  soil  since  the 
eleventh  century,  learning  how  to  govern.  Thiers 
said  of  the  first  King  of  Italy,  '  C'est  bien  le  sou- 
verain  le  plus  fin  que  j'ai  connu  en  Europe.'  A  hun- 
dred or  two  years  ago  some  one  cast  the  horoscope 
for  the  House  of  Savoy  on  the  basis,  not  of  poetical 
imagination,  but  of  pohtical  logic.  This  prophet 
declared  Italy  to  be  the  oyster  disputed  by  Austria 
and  France,  and  foretold  that  in  the  end  the  House  of 
Savoy  would  devour  the  oyster  and  leave  the  shells 
to  those  major  powers." 

"  How  very  interesting!  " 

"  Now  clearly  to  understand  the  phraseology  of 
the  struggle,  which,  I  confess,  is  confusing,  I  must 
remind  you  that  for  two  hundred  years  or  so  the 
Dukes,  or  Princes,  of  Savoy  have  been  known  also 
as  Kings  of  Sardinia,  that  island  having  been  in  some 
royal  dicker  annexed  to  Savoy  poHtically." 

"  *  Remind  '  is  lovely !  I  had  forgotten  that  in- 
teresting little  item."    Thus  Filia. 


STATUE    OF    COUNT    CAVOUK,    MILAN. 


New  Italy  29 

"  It  is  somewhat  perplexing  otherwise  to  find 
Piedmont  spoken  of  always  as  '  the  Sardinian  king- 
dom/ "  proceeded  Aztalos,  responding  to  the  re- 
mark only  by  a  threatening  smile  aside  at  her. 

"  Somewhat  so  at  least!  " 

"  You  must  stop  interrupting,  Filia,"  I  cried. 
"  This  is  an  important,  a  serious  occasion." 

"  In  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  Pied- 
mont alone  in  Italy  w^as  an  independent  state. 
Cavour  was  its  Prime  Minister.  He  conceived  the 
plan  and  controlled  the  tangled  and  complex  lines 
w^hich  finally  led  to  the  success  of  it,  that  Piedmont 
should  head  a  struggle  for  the  liberation  of  Italy  from 
the  yoke  of  Austria  and  for  the  unification  of  all  the 
petty  states  under  one  central  government;  the 
head  of  that  government  should  be  the  House  of 
Savoy  and  Rome  should  be  the  capital  city.  Cavour 
saw,  what  few  perceived  in  his  day,  that  only  in  the 
House  of  Savoy,  in  all  Italy,  w^as  leadership,  and  that 
Savoy  itself  could  five  only  if  it  led.  Its  motto  is 
*  The  House  of  Savoy  cannot  retreat.'  " 

"  Mazzini  is  always  called  the  prophet  of  Italian 
independence,  is  he  not?  "  I  asked;  "  this  sounds  as 
if  Cavour  were  also  a  prophet." 

'*  Mazzini  was  the  spiritual  prophet,  Cavour  the 
poHtical  prophet.  Between  the  two,  unhappily,  a 
great  gulf  is  fixed.  For  Mazzini  one  has  a  religious 
reverence;  for  Cavour  an  intellectual  reverence." 


30  The  Spell  of  Italy 

''  And  for  Garibaldi?  "   asked  Filia. 

"  For  Garibaldi,  Signorina,  those  who  knew  him 
would  gladly  die.  But  that  is  another  story.  We 
must  glance  for  a  moment  at  the  situation  of  Italy 
at  large  before  the  year  1848.  It  was  split  up  into  a 
dozen  or  more  small  principalities,  mutually  more  or 
less  hostile,  all  subject  to  foreign  despots,  Austrian 
and  Bourbon.  Southern  Italy,  with  Naples  and 
Sicily,  was  known  as  the  Kingdom  of  the  Two  Sicihes 
and  had  on  its  throne  a  Bourbon  tyrant.  Northward 
from  this  principahty,  reaching  from  the  Tiber  to  the 
Po,"  again  Aztalos  sketched  in  the  map  of  Italy  with 
his  fork,  "  were  the  States  of  the  Church,  known  better 
perhaps  as  the  Papal  States.  Over  them  the  Pope 
was  temporal  as  well  as  ecclesiastical  ruler.  On  the 
west  of  these  lay  the  Grand  Duchy  of  Tuscany,  under 
the  rule  of  an  Austrian  prince,  and  across  the  base 
of  the  Alps  the  great  territories  of  Piedmont,  Lom- 
bardy,  and  Venetia,  all,  save  Piedmont,  subservient 
to  Austria.  Small  states,  such  as  Parma  and  Modcna, 
parcelled  out  to  puppet  princes,  lay  sprinkled  about 
between. 

"  It  was  a  time  of  terror  and  humiliation,  outbursts 
of  furious,  desperate  revolution  alternating  with 
periods  of  sullen  apathy.  Each  princeling  was 
bound  to  receive  his  orders  from  Austria,  which  in 
return  kept  him  on  his  throne.  Plotting  and  con- 
spiracy were  the  order  of  the  day;    the  mysterious 


GIUSEPPE    MAZZINI. 


New  Italy  31 

secret  political  order,  called  the  Carbonari,  had 
come  into  being  and  had  spread  thi'ough  the  whole 
country.  Mazzini  had  appeared  and  organized  the 
great  poUtical  party  of  *  Young  Italy  '  which  de- 
manded a  repubhc  and  would  take  nothing  less. 
Giuseppe  Garibaldi,  who  beheved  in  Italy,  some  one 
says,  '  as  the  Saints  beheve  in  God,'  had  in  1843  en- 
listed under  Mazzini's  banner.  Their  project  failed. 
Both  men  were  exiled.  Mazzini  took  refuge  in 
Switzerland  and  later  in  England.  Garibaldi,  by 
birth  and  choice  a  sailor,  sailed  away  to  South 
America  and  went  into  training  for  twelve  years  as 
a  guerilla  chief  and  buccaneer.  Both  men  were  back 
in  Italy  in  1848. 

"  That  year  1848  was  the  year  of  crisis.  Lombardy 
rose  in  rebellion  against  foreign  tyranny  and  the 
Austrians  were  expelled  from  Milan.  This  event, 
the  news  of  which  reached  Turin  on  March  nine- 
teenth, fired  Cavour  with  faith  that  the  hour  had 
struck  for  fulfilment  of  his  dream  of  a  free  and 
united  Italy.  '  Only  one  path  is  open  to  the  nation, 
the  king:  war,  immediate  war!'  he  proclaimed 
through  his  newspaper,  the  Risorgimento. 

"  That  night  the  Sardinian  King,  Carlo  Alberto,  the 
Hamlet  of  the  play,  a  timid,  vacillating,  brooding 
man,  unlike  the  men  of  his  race  (with  strangely 
heroic  elements  of  character,  nevertheless),  decided  for 
instant  war.    The  people  followed  him  passionately 


32  The  Spell  of  Italy 

and  at  first  to  success.  But  reverses  followed,  and  in 
March,  a  year  later,  came  the  overwhelming  Austrian 
victory  at  Novara.  On  the  field  Carlo  Alberto,  who 
knew  himself  the  reproach  of  all  parties  by  his  lack 
of  military  genius,  abdicated  the  throne.  '  There  is 
your  king,'  he  said  to  his  generals,  and  pointed  to  his 
son.  *  The  Italians  will  never  trust  me,'  he  added. 
*  My  son,  Vittorio,  will  be  King  of  Italy,  not  I.'  He 
had  sought  death  in  battle,  but  it  failed  him,  and  that 
night  he  left  Novara  alone  for  Oporto.  He  died  in 
exile  there  not  long  after,  broken-hearted,  but  his 
death  made  him  the  royal  martyr  of  the  nation." 

"  And  now  tell  me  who  was  that  son  Vittorio?  " 
asked  Filia  eagerly.  We  were  both  listening  to  the 
recital  of  Aztalos  with  growing  interest. 

"  Vittorio  Emanuele,  second  King  of  Sardinia  of 
that  name,  first  Kjng  of  Italy." 

''  Then  the  son  of  poor  Carlo  Alberto  did  win  the 
struggle!  But  how  long  did  it  last  before  Italy  was 
one  and  free?  " 

''  Ten  years  in  round  numbers.  The  new  king  had 
his  hands  full  for  awhile  in  reorganization  of  Pied- 
montese  finances  and  of  the  army.  This  was  the 
period  when  Cavour  became  one  of  the  foremost 
statesmen  of  Europe.  Not  for  a  moment  did  his 
determination  to  drive  the  Austrians  from  Italy 
falter,  but  he  had  now  come  to  believe  it  impossible 
without  France  as  ally.     The  old  watchword  for  a 


STATUE    OF    VITTORIO    EMANUELE    II,    GENOA. 


New  Italy  33 

statesman,  ladies,  is, '  Patience;  and  shuffle  the  cards.' 
Cavour's  patience  in  winning  Napoleon  III  was  in- 
finite. Also  —  he  shuffled  the  cards!  Vittorio 
Emanuele  must  pledge  his  daughter's  hand  to  Jerome 
Napoleon,  an  old  reprobate;  Savoy  and  Nice  must  in 
the  end  be  ceded  to  France,  —  a  httle  shuffling  sure 
enough,  but  success  was  impossible  otherwise.  He 
kept  England's  sympathy  red-hot  for  Italy  also,  an 
immense  asset. 

"  In  1859  the  second  campaign  against  Austrian 
rule  was  opened,  the  French  fighting  side  by  side 
with  the  Italians,  in  the  great  battles  of  Magenta 
and  Solferino.  The  result  of  this  war,  a  short  and 
sharp  one,  was  the  armistice  of  Villa  Franca,  nego- 
tiated between  the  French  and  the  Austrians  un- 
known to  the  Sardinian  King  and  to  Cavour,  to 
whom  it  was  a  supremely  bitter  blow." 

"  But  why?  "  I  asked,  "  Was  not  peace  what 
they  fought  to  obtain?  " 

"  Not  until  they  had  freed  Venetia  as  well  as 
Lombardy.  Napoleon  had  promised  his  help  until 
Italy  should  be  free  from  the  Alps  to  the  Adriatic.  He 
broke  faith,  and  in  the  passion  of  the  hour  Vittorio 
Emanuele  cried  out,  that,  rather  than  be  unworthy 
of  the  trust  which  the  ItaHan  people  had  reposed  in 
him,  he  would  break  his  sword  and  throw  away  his 
crown  as  did  his  father.  Cavour  was  almost  mad 
with  disappointment." 


34  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  Was  there  notliing  gained,  then,  by  the  French 
alHanee  and  all  the  fighting?  "  asked  Filia,  looking 
so  deeply  concerned  that  our  instructor  cried : 

"  Cheer  up,  Signorina!  Yes,  much  was  gained,  far 
more  than  was  at  first  supposed.  Austria  withdrew 
out  and  out  from  the  greater  part  of  Northern  and 
Central  Italy,  and,  not  many  years  after,  Venice 
shook  herself  free  also.  The  most  dramatic  and 
picturesque  cowp  was,  naturally,  given  by  Garibaldi, 
always  the  popular  hero  of  the  story.  In  the  spring 
of  1860  he  landed  with  his  famous  Thousand  at 
Palermo,  conquered  the  Two  Sicilies  for  his  king,  and 
drove  the  Bourbon  despot  from  the  throne  of  Naples. 
On  September  7th  General  Garibaldi,  the  Dictator  as 
he  was  called  for  a  little  space,  entered  Naples  with- 
out troops,  accompanied  only  by  his  staff.  Although 
the  king  had  fled,  his  sentries  still  paced  before  all 
pubHc  buildings,  the  barracks  were  full  of  his  soldiers, 
and  up  above  us,  over  yonder,  Castel  Sant*  Elmo 
bristled  with  cannon,  their  muzzles  pointing  down 
into  the  town.  When  his  carriage  was  driven  down 
the  Toledo,  through  which  we  drove  just  now,  Gari- 
baldi rose  in  his  place  as  they  passed  under  the 
enemy's  guns,  stood  wuth  arms  folded  and  gave  the 
order,  '  Drive  slower,  slower  still.'  " 

"What  a  lion  heart!  Garibaldi  is  my  hero!" 
cried  FiHa, 

"  How  should  he  not  be  every  woman's  hero?  " 


GIUSKPPE    GAKIBALDI. 


New  Italy  35 

returned  Aztalos  quietly.  "  Read  Trevelyan's  book 
on  his  Defence  of  the  Roman  Republic  if  you  want  to 
really  know  the  man  and  the  woman  he  worshipped." 

"  The  Defence  of  the  Roman  Republic?  "  I  re- 
peated. "  Rome  was  a  repubhc  in  ancient  history 
and  for  a  little  while  under  Rienzi,  if  my  memory 
serves  me,  but  I  did  not  know  there  had  been  a 
Republic  of  Rome  in  recent  times." 

"  If  you  please,  Signora!  We  are  coming  to  that. 
Rome  was  a  repubhc  from  February  to  July  in  the 
year  1849.  We  must  go  back  for  a  moment  to  Vit- 
torio  Emanuele,  at  whose  feet  crown  after  crown  was 
being  cast. 

"In  February,  1861,  the  first  Itahan  ParHament 
met  at  Turin  and  constituted  the  Itahan  kingdom. 
Vittorio  Emanuele  was  declared  king,  with  the  succes- 
sion vested  in  his  heirs.  The  title,  '  King  of  Sardinia,' 
became  a  thing  of  the  past  from  that  day.  '  Our 
country,'  said  the  king,  *  is  no  more  the  Italy  of  the 
Romans  nor  the  Italy  of  the  Middle  Ages  .  .  .  hence- 
forth it  becomes  the  Italy  of  the  Italians.'  " 

"  Perfectly  fine !  "  responded  Fiha  with  quickened 
breath.    ''  He  must  have  been  a  hero  too." 

"  Well,  not  so  much,"  Aztalos  made  dubious  reply, 
"  a  brave  bluff  gentleman  of  not  quite  spotless  repu- 
tation —  Re  Galantuomo  the  people  called  him. 
You  must  have  seen  his  portrait.  He  is  not  a  man  to 
ideahze  exactly." 


36  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  Oh,  I  remember  perfectly,"  said  I;  "  the  strange 
physiognomy  and  the  monstrous  mustachios!  No, 
one  does  not  ideahze  Vittorio  Emanuele  II." 

"  He  was  true  to  Italy,  nevertheless,  Signora,  and 
every  state  in  Europe  sooner  or  later  recognized  his 
kingship  and  kingdom.  Except  one.  In  the  heart 
of  the  new  kingdom  lay,  hostile  and  irreconcilable, 
an  ancient,  compact  despotism  —  the  Papal  States. 
Just  a  word  about  the  struggle  with  Rome,  and  we 
must  go.  Next  week  you  will  be  in  Rome,  and  you 
will  again  be  asking,  Signorina,  for  some  one  to  ex- 
plain. I  am  jealous  of  my  successor  and  will  forestall 
his  tale,  if  I  can,  in  five  minutes." 

"  You  will  have  no  successor,"  Fiha  made  answer 
firmly,  then  coloured  as  she  met  a  strange  and  sudden 
Hght  of  question  in  his  eyes.  "  Please  continue,  Mr. 
Aztalos,"  she  begged,  and  he  proceeded  with  instant 
swing  back  to  his  subject. 

"  In  1846,  to  go  a  long  way  back,  before  the  upris- 
ing in  Lombardy,  the  defeat  of  Novara  and  all  these 
other  events,  Pius  IX  had  been  elected  Pope.  At 
first  he  declared  himself  Liberal,  and  Italy  thrilled 
with  joy  in  the  belief  that  for  once  a  Pope  was  a 
patriot.  Then  came  the  war  of  '48  and  '49,  and 
il  Papa  was  badly  scared  at  signs  of  revolution 
close  at  home.  He  went  back  on  his  initial  prom- 
ises, denounced  the  struggle  for  independence,  then 
fled  in  disguise  from  Rome  to  Gaeta  to  the  pro- 


New  Italy  37 

tection  of  the  Neapolitan  Ferdinand,  arch-enemy  of 
Italian  freedom.  Mazzini  was  in  the  running  again, 
and  at  last  there  seemed  a  chance  for  the  fulfilment 
of  his  Hfelong  hope.  On  February  ninth,  1849, 
Rome  was  declared  a  repubhc,  with  the  government 
in  the  hands  of  a  triumvirate  of  which  Mazzini  was 
head." 

"  Oh,  how  I  wish  he  could  have  succeeded! "  said 
Filia.  "  Must  right  be  *  for  ever  on  the  scaffold, 
wrong  for  ever  on  the  throne?  '  " 

"  Not  quite  always,  Signorina,  but  this  experi- 
ment was  foredoomed  to  failure.  Pio  Nono,  —  as 
they  call  Pius  here,  —  from  his  refuge  in  Gaeta,  in- 
trigued successively  with  the  Catholic  powers  of 
Europe  against  the  anti-papal  repubhc,  with  the 
result  that  in  April  a  mixed  army  of  Neapolitans, 
French,  Spanish,  and  Austrians  sat  down  before  the 
walls  of  Rome  demanding  surrender  and  restoration 
for  the  Pope,  Garibaldi  with  his  Legionaries  entered 
Rome  on  April  twenty-seventh,  the  strangest  pro- 
cession, all  men  say,  and  the  most  heroic  figure  ever 
beheld  by  mortal  eyes.  From  that  day  he  and  Maz- 
zini were  associated  in  the  administration  of  affairs, 
and  Garibaldi  was  made  commander-in-chief  of  the 
Roman  forces.  Please  keep  in  mind  that  this  was 
more  than  ten  years  before  his  conquest  of  Naples. 

"  When  you  are  in  Rome  next  week,  Signora,  you 
and  your  daughter  will  drive,  perhaps  first  of  all,  to 


38  The  Spell  of  Italy 

the  Janiculum  Hill  for  the  view  of  all  Rome.  There 
you  will  be  shown  the  equestrian  statue  of  Garibaldi, 
standing  on  the  very  spot  where  some  of  his  fiercest 
fights  for  the  young  republic  were  fought.  His  courage 
was  superhuman,  invincible.  All  Rome  worshipped 
him  as  its  saviour.  But  as  I  said,  it  was  a  forlorn 
hope  which  he  had  undertaken.  After  a  month's 
siege  the  city  capitulated.  Garibaldi  called  his 
soldiers  together  in  the  square  of  the  Vatican  and 
bade  who  would  follow  him.  '  I  cannot  offer  you 
honours  or  pay,'  he  declared;  *  I  offer  you  hunger, 
thirst,  forced  marches,  battle,  death!'  Three  thou- 
sand followed  him  on  his  retreat  into  the  mountains, 
but  before  he  reached  the  sea,  hunted  hke  a  fox 
through  the  marshes,  all  had  fallen  or  fled.  It  is  a 
thrilling  story,  heart-breaking  yet  glorious.  Mazzini 
Hngered  for  a  little  in  Rome,  courting  death  at  the 
hands  of  the  foreigners  who  for  awe  of  him  could 
not  compass  his  taking  ofT.  Finally  he  returned  to 
England,  his  adopted  home." 

"Tragic!  And  what  about  Pio  Nono?  Did  he 
return  at  once  to  Rome?  " 

"  Not  for  nearly  a  year.  Then  he  came  back  to 
the  Vatican  very  hard,  very  narrow,  very  determined, 
all  his  professed  sympathy  with  Italy  for  ever  fled. 
He  adopted  a  policy  w^holly  reactionary  and  sur- 
rounded himself  with  French  soldiers  and  Jesuit 
advisers. 


New  Italy  39 

"  His  rule  in  the  Papal  States  became  not  less  op- 
pressive and  disastrous  than  that  of  the  worst  of 
Bourbon  tyrants.  Unrest  reached  an  acute  stage  in 
1860,  and  the  Pope  raised  an  army  to  quell  it  by  force 
of  arms.  Sardinian  troops  marched  to  the  rescue 
and  prevailed  against  the  army  of  Pio  Nono  after  a 
campaign  of  eighteen  days.  The  final  issue  was  that 
the  Papal  States  were  annexed  in  toto  to  the  King- 
dom of  Italy,  and  the  Pope  was  left  with  nothing  but 
Rome  itself.  From  that  day  to  tliis  the  Vatican  has 
stood  unchangeably  against  the  cause  of  national 
unity  and  independence.  The  Pope  was  the  one 
European  potentate  who  never  acknowledged  the 
Italian  state  or  the  kingship  vested  in  the  House  of 
Savoy." 

"  And  Pio  Nono  was  the  first  Pope  to  be  declared 
infallible!"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  that  happened  in  the  summer  of  1870. 
Two  months  later  the  Italian  Government,  having 
decided  that  not  Turin,  not  Florence,  must  be  capital, 
that  '  without  Rome  there  was  no  Italy,'  and  having 
exhausted  all  peaceable  overtures  to  the  Pope,  sent 
troops  to  the  walls  of  the  city  demanding  submission. 
The  Pope  refused  to  yield  it.  At  five-thirty  in  the 
morning  of  the  memorable  twentieth  of  September 
(Venti  Settembre)  the  Italian  troops  attacked  the 
walls  of  Rome  at  five  different  points,  each  point  a 
city  gate.     At  the  Porta  Pia  —  perhaps  you   will 


40  The  Spell  of  Italy 

care  to  visit  it,  Michelangelo  drew  the  design  for 
it  —  a  breach  was  made,  and  the  regiments  of 
the  line  crying  '  Savoy ! '  '  Savoy ! '  dashed  into  the 
city,  meeting  but  feeble  resistance  from  Pio  Nono's 
French  and  Belgian  Zouaves,  The  street  by  which 
the  troops  entered  now  bears  the  name  '  Venti 
Settembre.'  You  will  find  a  strada,  a  via,  a  corso, 
or  a  piazza  of  that  name  in  every  city  you  visit  in 
Italy.  Also  frequently  the  use  of '  Sette  Settembre  '  — 
the  day  of  Garibaldi's  entry  here  in  Naples  as  Dic- 
tator; everywhere  streets  named  for  Garibaldi  him- 
self, for  Cavour,  and  Mazzini,  for  Vittorio  Emanuele 
and  his  son  Umberto  Primo,  for  Queen  Margherita, 
widow  of  Umberto  (Humbert  Americans  say,  I  be- 
Heve),  sometimes  for  Carlo  Albert(^  and  the  men  of 
his  generation." 

"  Italian  streets  must  have  been  to  great  extent 
renamed  in  recent  times,"  I  remarked. 

"  They  have,  Signora.  Their  names  very  largely 
mark  the  awakening  of  the  national  consciousness. 
They  tell  the  story  of  Independence." 

"  But  the  troops  are  only  just  inside  the  Porta 
Pia,"  cried  Filia.  "  Please  go  on  and  tell  us  what 
happened  next?  What  did  the  king's  men  do  with 
the  Pope?  " 

"  They  protected  him,  Signorina,  and  respected 
him  as  they  have  every  Pope  since.  On  that  twentieth 
of  September,  when  all  Rome  went  mad  with  joy, 


New  Italy  41 

when  they  wept  aloud  as  they  kissed  the  tri-colour, 
knowing  that  the  temporal  power  of  the  Papacy 
was  at  an  end  and  that  Rome  at  last  belonged  to 
Italy,  when  the  air  was  shivered  with  the  cries 
of  '  Roma  capitate ! '  no  hand  or  voice  was  lifted 
against  the  Vatican  or  the  old  despot  who  sat  sullen 
and  silent  there." 

"  I  think  they  were  perfectly  wonderful,"  said 
Filia  solemnly. 

"  I  think  they  have  been  forbearing  at  least  all  the 
way  through,"  returned  Aztalos.  "  The  government 
sought  to  give  the  Leonine  City,  that  is,  Rome  beyond 
Tiber,  to  the  Pope  for  his  own  proper  domain,  but  he 
refused  it  and  shut  himself  up  in  the  Vatican,  de- 
claring himself  a  political  prisoner.  The  Prisoner-of- 
the- Vatican  theory  has  been  adopted  by  his  successors 
also.  Nevertheless,  the  Italian  Parliament  has 
secured  to  the  Pope  every  permissible  honour,  emolu- 
ment, and  privilege,  including  an  annual  grant  of 
three  and  a  quarter  millions  francs.  This  no  Pope 
ever  uses." 

"  What  becomes  of  it?  " 

"  It  reverts  to  the  Crown,  which  is  on  the  whole 
rather  lucky,  as  the  government  is  poor." 

"  Ought  you  not  to  revert  to  your  watch,  Signore?  " 
asked  Fiha.  "  Your  train  leaves  at  eight  o'clock,  you 
told  me." 

We  all  rose.     It  was  nearly  seven  and  Vesuvius 


42  The  Spell  of  Italy 

was  wrapping  itself  in  violet  shadows.  From  the 
direction  of  Posilipo  a  breeze  began  to  blow,  keen- 
ing the  water  of  the  Bay  into  foam-capped 
waves. 

We  came  down  to  the  street  level  and  took  the 
carriage  waiting  there. 

"  I  wish  your  lecture  could  go  on  indefinitely," 
I  said  as  we  drove  down  through  the  Parco  Mar- 
gherita;   "  there  must  be  volumes  left  to  tell." 

Our  instructor  assented,  his  natural  gravity  by 
no  means  conceaHng  the  ardour  of  his  enthusiastic 
sympathy  with  the  story  of  Italy. 

"  The  whole  history  is  brimful  of  romance  and  of 
heroic  personalities.  Let  me  advise  you  both  by 
all  means  to  read  the  books  of  the  Contcssa  Mar- 
tinengo  Cesaresco.  Not  to  do  so  is  to  do  yourself 
and  Italy  injustice,  I  assure  you.  There  is  yet  much 
I  wished  to  mention,  but  we  have  no  time.  The 
Signorina  would  be  captivated  by  the  figure  of  Ugo 
Bassi,  the  monk  who  was  Garibaldi's  chaplain  and 
his  inseparable  friend.  He  used  to  march  unarmed 
at  the  head  of  the  battalions,  holding  up  the  crucifix. 
The  Austrians  shot  him  down  like  a  dog.  You  will 
see  his  statue  in  Bologna  some  day,  I  hope.  A  street 
there  bears  his  name." 

"  I  heard  long  ago  some  mention  of  Ugo  Bassi," 
said  Filia  musingly.  "  For  years  I  have  loved  some 
mysterious,  fugitive  lines  of  which  I  only  knew  that 


New  Italy  43 

they  were  said  to  be  taken  from  '  Ugo  Bassi's  Sermon.' 
I  wonder  if  I  remember  them  still." 
Slowly,  recoUectingly  she  repeated: 

« <  The  vine  from  every  living  limb  bleeds  wine,  — 
Is  it  the  poorer  for  that  spirit  shed  ? 
Measure  thy  life  by  loss  instead  of  gain ; 
Not  by  the  wine  drunk,  but  the  wine  poured  forth ; 
For  love's  strength  standeth  in  love's  sacrifice, 
And  whoso  suffers  most  hath  most  to  give.' " 

We  drew  up  before  the  Pensione  Felice  and  left 
the  carriage.  Hat  in  hand,  with  serious,  softened 
face  Aztalos  made  his  adieux.  To  Filia  I  heard  him 
say: 

"  To-night  I  must  indeed  measure  my  Ufe  by  loss 
instead  of  gain.    Who  knows  when  —  " 

"  Dio  lo  sa,"  she  broke  in  quickly,  grown  a  little 
pale.    "  Addio,  caro  Signor  Maestro!  " 

Late  in  the  evening  a  messenger  from  the  station 
brought  me  a  last,  hurried  line  from  Aztalos.  It 
enclosed  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  Contessa 
Cecilia  Carletti  in  Rome.  "  I  am  proud  to  call  her 
my  friend,"  he  wrote;  "  as  a  woman  she  is  noble; 
as  an  author,  gifted;  as  a  patriot,  impassioned; 
an  Italian  of  Italians,  though  American  by  birth. 
She  will  talk  with  you  of  many  things." 


IV 


CORALS   AND   THE    IMMORTAL   GODS 

'NEVITABLE  reaction  carried  us  next  morn- 
ing to  the  shops  in  the  Piazza  dei  Martiri 
and  the  Via  Calabritto.  A  half  hour  in 
Morabito's,  with  its  dazzHng  delights  of 
coral,  lapis  lazuli,  turquoise,  and  tortoise  shell,  re- 
moved the  last  trace  of  the  pale  cast  of  thought  with 
which  I  fancied  Fiha's  native  hue  to  be  sicklied  o'er 
on  first  arising. 

"Can  a  maid  forget  her  ornaments!"  I  sighed, 
and  received  from  Filia  a  prompt  negative. 

"  Not  if  they  are  in  three  strings  and  of  that  palest 
pink." 

Signor  Morabito  found  the  young  lady's  vivacity 
promising,  and  with  a  winning  smile  brought  out 
more  white  boxes  with  corals  yet  more  exquisite. 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  buying  corals  so  quickly," 
I  deprecated,  but  Filia,  it  appeared,  had  thought  of 
nothing  else.  In  fact  she  seemed  to  have  come  to 
Italy  mainly  for  this  purpose. 

"  I  did  not  reahze  that  you  were  so  frivolous,"  I 

44 


Corals  and  the  Immortal  Gods        45 

murmured;  "  I  supposed  that  a  college  education 
made  a  difference,  that  art  and  scenery  were  what 
you  cared  most  for  —  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no!  "  she  cried.  "  Give  me  the  shops 
every  time.  Mother,  see  that  Etruscan  bracelet! 
Certainly  these  antique  designs  are  irresistible." 

I  gave  up  all  effort  to  stem  the  tide,  which  in  fact 
swept  me  off  my  feet  as  well,  especially  when  we 
strolled  into  Ahnari's.  Then  there  were  glovemakers 
in  the  Chiaia  and  all  sorts  of  fascinations  in  the  Via 
Roma.  At  noon  we  turned  by  chance  into  the  lofty 
arcade  of  the  Galleria  Umberto  Primo  and  found 
"  Neapohtan  specialties "  of  every  description  dis- 
played in  fresh  allurement. 

With  enthusiasm  for  the  local  life  still  unabated 
we  took  our  luncheon  at  a  small  table  under  the  glass 
dome  of  the  Galleria,  just  outside  the  Caff^  Umberto 
Primo. 

"  Signor  Aztalos  did  not  really  get  to  Umberto 
Primo,"  Fiha  remarked  casually  over  the  dessert; 
"  he  said  there  would  be  streets  and  things  named  for 
him.    Who  was  he,  —  Vittorio  Emanuele's  son?  " 

"  Yes.  We  called  him  King  Humbert;  you  must 
remember  hearing  of  him.  He  was  assassinated  in 
1900, 1  think.  His  son  is  the  present  king  —  Vittorio 
Emanuele  III." 

"  Is  that  all  the  kings  of  United  Italy  there  have 
been,  just  those  three?     How  simple!     That  com- 


46  The  Spell  of  Italy 

pletes  the  process  of  my  education,  while  I  am  in 
Naples  at  least.  Henceforward,  my  gentle  mother, 
I  frivol!  Give  the  sad-eyed  cameriere,  please,  a 
princely  tip,  not  less  certainly  than  five  cents,  and 
make  his  heart  glad.  I  can't  wait  another  minute  to 
dash  into  that  fascinating  book  shop.  I  must  get  a 
Shelley.  It  is  quite  certain  one  cannot  live  in  Italy 
without  it." 

An  hour  later  we  stepped  from  the  motley  entice- 
ments of  the  streets  of  Naples  into  the  silent  halls 
of  the  Museo  Nazionale  and  yielded  ourselves  up  to 
another  spell  and  a  mighty  one,  still  and  grave  and 
full  of  awe.  I  had  more  than  once  visited  the  sculp- 
ture galleries  of  London  and  Paris,  but  nothing  had 
prepared  me  for  the  inexhaustible  treasures  and 
trophies  of  the  Naples  Museo. 

In  silence  we  moved  slowly  on  between  the  ranks 
and  rows  of  praetors  and  proconsuls,  imperators  and 
warriors,  graces  and  nymphs,  gods  and  goddesses. 
Surely  an  august  assembly  and  one  to  enhance  for 
ever  the  sum  of  human  values!  Dignity,  repose,  in- 
tellectual mastery,  courage,  passion,  victory,  the 
immortal  joy  of  immortals,  above  all  beauty,  and 
beauty  the  noblest,  confronted  us  at  every  step. 
The  crown  and  culmination  I  seemed  to  discern  in 
the  bust  of  Homer. 

"  Look  at  that  front  of  Jove,  Filia,  that  brooding, 
threatening  gloom  of  the  seer  and  singer!    '  His  head 


BUST    OF    HOMER,    MUSEO    NAZIONALE,    NAPLES. 


Corals  and  the  Immortal  Gods        47 

and  eyes  are  like  unto  Zeus  whose  joy  is  in  the  thun- 
der ! '  Think  of  our  recent  raptures  at  Morabito's ! 
What  are  corals  now?  " 

"  Only  strings  of  paltry  beads,"  murmured  Filia 
humbly.  "  I  can't  think  why  I  cared  so  much  for 
them.  I  am  coming  here  every  day,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  that  Ganymede,  and,  oh,  do  let  us  stay  a 
whole  week  in  Naples!  " 

"  A  week  is  not  enough,"  I  said  and  turned  into 
the  Corridor  of  the  Roman  Emperors.  Filia,  her 
eyes  on  the  page  of  her  catalogue,  was  bent  on  making 
her  way  to  the  Farnese  Bull.  As  a  consequence  we 
lost  each  other  for  twenty  minutes,  during  which 
I  saw  no  person  beyond  a  guard  or  two  and  an  army 
officer  in  resplendent  uniform,  with  twisted,  upturned 
moustache  and  excessively  brilliant  eyes.  A  moment 
after  I  came  upon  my  daughter  standing  flushed  with 
keen  joy  of  discovery,  beside  a  small  Pompeian 
statue  of  green  bronze. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  anything  so  beautiful? " 
she  cried.    "  It  is  the  Narcissus." 

"  Never,"  I  responded  with  fervour,  for  the  charm 
of  the  figure  was  enthralling.  "  But  that  pose,  Filia, 
the  upheld  finger,  and  the  head  inclined  at  just  that 
angle  —  " 

*'  Yes,  I  suppose  it  runs  in  the  Greek  blood,"  she 
answered  demurely.  "  It  is  il  Greco  in  act  of  giving 
instruction,  isn't  it?     He  is  rather  a  hyacinthine 


48  The  Spell  of  Italy 

youth,  whatever  that  is;  I  shall  call  him  Narcissus 
hereafter." 

It  was  time  to  go.  At  the  exit  of  the  central  portico 
we  met  the  officer  I  had  seen  before.  I  perceived  a 
sudden  stiffening  of  Fiha's  bearing.  He  saluted  us 
with  exaggerated  reverence,  but  naturally  received  no 
recognition  in  return. 

"  The  gentleman  wishes  to  marry  me,  I  believe," 
said  Filia  nonchalantly  as  we  came  out  of  the  build- 
ing; "  at  least  I  gathered  that  from  his  remarks, 
but  he  uses  this  horrid  NeapoKtan  dialect.  I  only 
understand  pure  Italian! " 

"  Pray  when  did  he  make  remarks  to  you?  "  I 
cried  indignantly.  "  Insolent  puppy,  what  did  he 
mean  by  it?    Did  he  annoy  you?  " 

"  Not  particularly.  Signor  Aztalos  forewarned  me; 
it  is  the  regular  thing.  I  simply  ignored  him.  I 
think  he  has  never  loved  before  on  his  own  showing, 
but  it  seemed  a  little  sudden,  even  for  a  Southron! " 

"  I  shall  take  care  that  we  do  not  lose  each  other 
again!  "  I  cried  "wdth  some  vexation. 

"Oh,  never  mind,  love,"  said  Filia  soothingly,  "he 
is  just  a  walking  doll,  a  harmless  puppet  with  real 
hair  and  a  sword,  wound  up  to  say  two  or  three  neat 
little  phrases.  Dolls  of  that  kind  take  it  for  granted 
that  every  girl  who  looks  at  them  must  lose  her 
heart,  and  a  kind  word  is,  you  sec,  required  by  a 
sense  of  courtesy  to  the  admiring  forestiera.   I  routed 


FARNESE    BULL,    MUSEO    NAZIONALE,    NAPLES. 


Corals  and  the  Immortal  Gods        49 

him  easily  with  one  look,  and  you  should  have  seen 
him  in  full  retreat  before  me.    A  perfect  Latin  race !  " 

'^  Good  for  you !  Do  you  fancy,  Fiha,  that  there 
really  are  American  girls  who  encourage  these  officers 
to  make  such  advances?    It  seems  incredible." 

"  I  am  sure  it  would  have  been  in  your  generation, 
when  every  one's  chief  delight  was  to  do  the  thing 
she  ought,  but  I  fear  it  is  not  quite  incredible  now- 
adays." 

There  are  two  Italian  words  which  are  inevitably 
adopted  by  Americans  who  come  in  contact  with 
them,  because  they  express  shades  of  meaning  for 
which  English  words  fail  us.  These  are  simpatica 
and  antipatica.  I  have  discovered  that  travellers  in 
Italy  may  be  divided  into  the  class  to  which  Naples 
is  antipatica  and  that  to  which  it  is  simpatica.  We 
belonged  in  the  second  class,  but  I  cannot  be  sure 
how  much  was  due  in  our  case  to  the  fact  that  for 
us  the  first  revelation  of  Italy,  with  all  the  inde- 
scribable sensuous  charm  of  the  South,  was  given  us 
there.  In  the  very  first  awakening  in  Naples  a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  earth  dawned  upon  us;  we  were 
in  a  Never  Never  Land  of  Wonder,  amid  lovehness 
in  which  self  and  sense  relax  and  dissolve.  AH  the 
strangeness,  the  glamour,  the  enchantment  of  it, 
smote  upon  us  with  unbroken  force.  Had  we  taken 
Italy  gradually,  from  the  Alps  down,  we  might  have 


50  The  Spell  of  Italy 

found  Naples  like  the  rest,  only  a  little  more  so, 
might  have  found  things  to  disapprove  and  condemn. 
But  one  is  not  concerned  for  the  street-cleaning  and 
municipal  government  of  Fairyland! 

We  were  taken  wholly  off  our  guard  by  the  curious 
child  Shape  of  Happiness  which  called  upon  us  to 
stand  and  surrender  at  this  portal  of  Italy.  We  had 
expected  to  be  interested,  to  be  instructed,  to  be 
charmed  in  the  country  of  Long  Desire,  but  this 
wholly  irresistible  Happiness  we  had  not  conceived  of. 
But  "  Happiness  had  found  us  out,  found  us  out  at 
last;  "  intellect  went  to  sleep,  was  not  called  for; 
care  spread  its  wings  and  flitted  away  Uke  an  owl 
from  the  sun.  And  so  we  loved  Naples  and  dared  to 
confess  it  even  to  the  superior  travellers  of  whom  we 
met  a  plenty  who  looked  upon  us  with  disfavour  on 
that  account,  and  said  coldly  that  it  was  too  dirty 
for  them,  and  did  we  like  the  noise  and  the  smells? 
Yes,  we  thought  the  noise  joyous  and  we  only  smelt 
roses  and  orange  blossoms!  The  next  question  would 
be.  But  what  do  you  find  to  do?  the  "  sightseer's  " 
duty  being  plainly  to  be  up  and  doing.  With  a 
guilty  knowledge  of  hours  upon  hours  spent  in  our 
balcony  hanging  between  sea  and  sky,  doing  nothing 
but  be  in  Naples  and  listen  to  the  sadly  prophetic 
yet  bewitching  strains  of  *'  Addio  a  NapoU  "  from 
wandering  singers  in  the  street  below,  we  would 
hasten  to  insist  upon  the  acknowledged  merits  of  the 


GANYMEDE    AND    THK     KAGLE,    MUSEO    NAZIONALE,    NAPLES. 


Corals  and  the  Immortal  Gods        51 

Museo.  But  what  was  the  Museo  to  the  collections 
we  would  find  in  Rome?  This  suggestion  always 
made  Filia  and  me  tremble  inwardly,  for  how  could 
we  bear  a  greater  weight  of  glory?  We  were  coming 
to  dread  Rome  in  a  most  cowardly  fashion,  knowing 
full  well  that  we  should  have  to  use  our  brains  again 
when  we  faced  its  walls.  SUding  with  httle  emphasis 
over  the  shops  (the  charm  of  which  I  must  here 
confess  had  again  reasserted  itself),  lest  we  should 
be  thought  too  frivolous,  we  would  advance  the  de- 
hghts  of  our  daily  drives  to  the  Mergellina  and  Posil- 
ipo,  to  Pozzuoli,  to  the  Vomero  and  Capodimonte. 
This  was  usually  met  by  the  disapproving  exclama- 
tion, "  But  have  you  not  been  to  Pompeii  yet?  " 
To  this  we  always  said  hurriedly  that  we  were  going 
to-morrow,  but  to-morrow  after  to-morrow  went  by, 
and  still  we  went  not.  We  instinctively  shunned  so 
strenuous  an  excursion  and  yet,  as  I  told  Filia,  I 
should  never  dare  to  face  Cousin  Lucretia  if  I  had 
not  seen  Pompeii;  it  was  the  one  sacrifice  I  felt  I 
must  make  to  her  faith  in  me. 

Accordingly,  on  our  tenth  Neapohtan  day,  we 
placed  ourselves  in  the  hands  of  a  competent  Delinea- 
tor and  explored  Pompeii's  weird  and  haggard 
ruins.  I  am  afraid  we  were  not  very  keen  on  the 
archaeology  but  the  scenic  effects  and  the  intimate 
human  suggcstiveness  were  most  interesting.  There 
lay  the  little  city,  scarred  and  deserted,  the  ashes 


52  The  Spell  of  Italy 

of  the  homes  of  men,  with  la  Vesuve,  stern  and  secret, 
rising  up  behind  it,  overlooking  the  havoc  it  had 
wrought  without  relenting.  The  sky  was  purest 
blue,  the  ruins  gray,  with  here  and  there  the  relief  of 
pinks  and  yellows  in  the  ancient  frescoes;  just  be- 
yond rose  a  file  of  stone  pine-trees,  hke  sentinels 
overlooking  the  desolation  of  a  fought-out  field  of 
battle.  The  silence  was  profound  and  yet  to  me  it 
was  strangely  soulless,  and  the  impression  left  deepest 
upon  my  mind  was  of  a  piercing  and  sinister  mockery. 
I  was  glad  at  last  to  get  away  from  those  gaudy 
futihties  of  domestic  decoration  flung  like  a  dead 
beggar's  rags  against  that  pitiless  majesty  of  Vesuvius. 

The  following  morning  I  was  ill.  An  American 
physician,  one  of  our  fellow  pensioners,  came  at 
FiUa's  request  to  see  me. 

"  You  are  staying  in  Naples  too  long,"  he  said; 
"  also  Pompeii  is  an  overbearing  spectre  to  certain 
temperaments.  Go  over  to  Capri  on  the  boat  this 
afternoon.  Get  the  lava  dust  blown  out  of  your 
system." 

Accordingly  we  sailed  at  four  for  Capri,  expecting 
to  arrive  before  sunset  and  look  about  us  for  a  suit- 
able hotel  or  pensione.  The  guide-books  gave  so 
many,  it  must  be  simple.  Simple,  alas,  was  what 
it  proved  not  to  be,  for  that  night  at  Capri  gave  us 
our  first  approach  to  an  adventure. 

The  sun  set  while  we  were  making  the  landing  at 


Corals  and  the  Immortal  Gods        53 

Sorrento,  and  instantly,  without  gradation  of  twilight, 
darkness  fell.  It  was  an  hour  later  when  we  reached 
Capri,  and,  the  evening  being  cloudy,  the  darkness 
was  as  midnight.  A  few  twinkling  lights  were  scat- 
tered at  cheerless  intervals  in  the  clefts  of  a  desolate, 
precipitous  headland  looming  before  us  frowning 
and  formidable!  —  was  this  Capri?  We  had  seen 
the  island  basking  in  the  sun  from  the  deck  of  the 
Illustrissima  Principessa  and  from  our  Naples  bal- 
cony; it  had  seemed  a  Happy  Isle,  a  jewelled  casket 
of  dehght  to  us  in  the  distance;  we  had  asked  no 
questions  as  to  ways  and  means,  had  fancied  it  a 
land  where  it  was  always  afternoon!  We  figured 
ourselves  stepping  hghtly  from  the  steamer  to  the 
landing  and  from  that  into  the  immediate  hospitahties 
of  some  obvious  and  cordial  pensione,  as  we  had 
done  at  Naples. 

Peering  now  through  the  gloom  I  could  see  noth- 
ing on  the  shore  resembling  a  town,  but  only  those 
small  ineffectual  lamps  whose  beams  were  thrown 
not  far  and  gave  no  sign  of  promise.  For  the  first 
time  since  we  had  been  in  Italy  I  felt  intim- 
idated, shaken  in  my  cheerful  confidence  in  my 
star. 

"  FiHa,"  I  said,  with  a  Uttle  uncontrollable  quiver 
in  my  voice,  "  do  you  reahze  that  we  know  nothing 
about  Capri?  Is  it  a  continent,  or  a  grotto,  or  a 
town,  or  a  cliff?    And  where  are  we  going?    Do  get 


54  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

out  the  Baedeker  and  hunt  up  an  address.    We  really 
have  been  most  heedless." 

Filia  opened  the  Study  in  Scarlet,  fumbled  over 
the  leaves  under  a  very  flickering  cabin  lamp  and 
read  here  and  there. 

"  '  The  Blue  Grotto  is  first  visited  .  .  .  the  is- 
land yields  fruit,  oil  and  excellent  wines  .  .  .  the 
indigenous  flora  .  .  .'" 

"  For  pity's  sake,  my  child,  go  on  to  the  hotels!  " 

"  Dearest,  I  am  trying  my  best.  This  print  is  so 
mealy  and  small.  .  .  .  Here  it  is :  '  the  capital  of 
the  island  Hes  on  the  saddle ! '  " 

"  Fancy  its  having  a  capital,  and  on  a  saddle! 
I  supposed  it  was  all  just  —  Capri,"  and  I  laughed 
nervously  at  the  absurdity  of  my  vagueness. 

"Now  I've  got  it!"  exclaimed  Fiha  with  fresh 
confidence;  "  '  Hidigeigei,  good  and  moderate;  Ger- 
man beer,'  no,  that  is  only  a  caffe;  '  the  best  hotels  are 
open  to  criticism;  advisable  to  secure  rooms  before- 
hand.' " 

"Oh,  Filia!"  I  very  nearly  wailed.  "  And  do  you 
see  what  we  have  to  land  in?  Look  at  those  tiny 
rowboats  they  are  lowering  the  passengers  into.  If 
I  had  dreamed  of  that  I  should  never  have  come." 

Filia  had  closed  the  Baedeker  with  decision  and 
now  pulled  from  her  pocket  a  small  address-book. 

"  What  a  stupid  I  am,"  she  remarked  cheerfully. 
"  I  have  a  splendid  address  for  Capri  right  here  and 


Corals  and  the  Immortal  Gods        55 

forgot  it.  Benny  Bacon  gave  it  to  me  just  before 
we  left  home.  The  Bacons  have  stayed  there  weeks 
together,  and  he  said  it  was  the  jolHest  place  in  all 
Italy  and  we  must  be  sure  not  to  fail  of  going  there." 

This  was  certainly  promising. 

"  Yes,  here  it  is:  '  Villa  Cercola,  Mrs.  N .    Best 

ever.  Benny  B.'  Now  we're  all  right  you  see,  for 
we  know  just  where  we're  going." 

This  reassuring  prospect  steadied  me  as  we  were 
rowed  across  the  stretch  of  inky  water  towards  a 
narrow  and  rickety  dock.  Next  to  Filia  in  the  small 
boat  sat  a  stout  Italian  woman  whom  I  had  observed 
during  the  journey  across  the  bay  as  prosperous  and 
sensible  looking.  I  suggested  now  to  Filia  to  in- 
quire of  her  concerning  the  Villa  Cercola. 

After  a  brief  conversation  in  Itahan  Fiha  gave  me 
the  good  news  that  the  Villa  Cercola  was  only  ten 
minutes  distant  from  —  exactly  what  she  did  not 
know,  but  it  sounded  hopeful,  and  it  was  close  be- 
side the  woman's  own  house;  if  we  followed  her  she 
would  take  us  directly  there.  Buoyed  up  by  tliis 
promise,  we  scrambled  up  to  the  landing  stage,  and 
entered  a  dilapidated  cabriolet.  Om-  friend  took 
another  and  we  followed  her  up  and  up  through  ever 
deepening  darkness,  whither  we  had  no  notion. 
Whether  we  were  bound  for  the  saddle  or  the  stirrup 
we  formed  no  idea;  whether  Capri  was  before  us  or 
behind  notliing  indicated,  but  to  that  blessed  die- 


56  The  Spell  of  Italy 

turn  that  the  Villa  Cercola  was  but  ten  minutes 
from  somewhere  and  the  "  best  ever  "  we  held  hard. 

I  had  consulted  my  watch  by  an  oil  lamp  on  the 
dock,  and  it  was  precisely  half  an  hour  after  landing 
when  we  drew  up  in  a  dim  village  market-place,  all 
the  houses  of  which  appeared  closed  for  the  night. 
Still  we  made  no  doubt  that  we  were  now  in  the 
saddle  and  that  some  house  of  these  around  about 
must  be  our  haven,  for  this  was  Capri,  the  "  capital  " 
of  Capri  the  island. 

As  we  alighted,  our  Italian  woman,  who  seemed 
closely  occupied  now  with  her  own  affairs,  bade  Filia 
hire  a  facchino.  A  picturesque,  bearded  fellow,  whose 
costume  was  of  something  the  simplest,  placed  our 
suit-case  on  his  head  without  a  word  and  strode 
across  the  square  to  a  narrow  alley  leading  into 
mysterious  recesses.  Once  more  darkness  swallowed 
us  up.  We  felt  beneath  our  feet  a  rugged,  stony  path, 
and  it  led  upward  and  ever  upward;  more  than  this 
we  could  not  discover.  Our  companion  had  grown 
taciturn  and  seemed  to  have  lost  interest  in  us. 
But  after  we  had  stumbled  on  in  growing  anxiety  for 
ten  minutes  or  more  we  saw  light  from  a  lantern 
hung  out  on  a  massive  wall;  beneath  the  lantern  was 
a  small  door. 

"Oh,  this  then  is  the  Villa  Cercola!"  we  both 
exclaimed,  I  in  English,  Filia  in  Italian. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  replied  the  woman  curtly;   "  this  is 


Corals  and  the  Immortal  Gods        57 

where  I  live.     The  villa  is  still  some  distance  on. 
Buona  notte! " 

With  this  the  door  closed  upon  her  and  we  stood 
staring  at  it,  making  a  dramatic  tableau  of  the  Foolish 
Virgins  and  reahzing  our  fooHshness  with  beating 
hearts.  At  least,  I  thought,  Fiha  shall  not  imagine 
how  frightened  I  am;  that  she  was  even  more  fright- 
ened I  did  not  discover  through  the  careless  confi- 
dence which  she  now  assumed. 

"brigands  and  the  black  hand" 

These  words,  the  title  of  a  chapter  in  a  book  on 
Italy  which  had  once  fallen  into  my  hands,  throbbed 
in  my  ears.  My  imagination,  which  had  been  lying 
under  a  delicious  spell  these  many  weeks,  now  started 
into  diabohcal  activity.  That  woman  was  plainly 
an  Emissary,  the  facchino  a  Villain  of  deepest  dye. 
We  were  being  lured  on  to  some  mountain  Cavern, 
whether  to  be  simply  robbed  or  to  be  held  for  ransom 
I  was  not  quite  sure. 

"Courage,  there's  a  light!"  cried  Filia.  Yes, 
there  was  a  light  and  below  it  a  gate  and  a  large, 
legible  legend:   "  Hotel  Slossen." 

"  Don't  you  think  we  would  better  give  up  the 
Villa  Cercola,  mother,  and  try  this?  "  asked  Filia 
tentatively. 

"  If  we  only  knew  what  kind  of  a  hotel  it  is,"  I 


58  The  Spell  of  Italy 

murmured,  breathless,  agitated.  What  if  it  were 
the  Cavern  in  question? 

"  You  would  better  keep  on,  Signora,  to  Villa 
Cercola.    This  house  is  not  suited." 

The  words  were  spoken  in  broken  English  close  to 
my  ear.  Startled,  I  turned  quickly  and  saw  a  man's 
figure  looming  large.    I  drew  back  in  fresh  alarm. 

"  How  much  farther  is  it?  " 

The  sharpness  of  piercing  anxiety  made  my  voice 
strange  to  my  own  ears. 

"  Ten  minutes,"  said  the  Voice. 

Always  ten  minutes!  And  ten  minutes  always 
half  an  hour!  And  was  the  Voice  that  of  Second 
Murderer,  the  mute  facchino  being  First?  I  paused 
to  consider,  but  Filia  was  hurrying  forward,  her 
eye  on  the  suit-case,  and,  with  footsteps  which  fal- 
tered painfully  and  knees  which  shook,  I  followed, 
the  Voice  keeping  ever  at  my  side.  Suddenly  we 
turned  a  corner  between  high  walls,  and  two  things 
of  a  cheering  natm-e  happened:  Voice  or  Second 
Murderer,  to  my  unspeakable  rehef,  plunged  into  a 
side  passage  and  disappeared  —  doubtless  to  milk  his 
peaceful  capri,  poor,  well-meaning  man !  —  and  a 
light,  the  third  since  leaving  the  market-place,  shone 
out  far  beyond  and  far  above  us,  shone  out  at  the 
summit  of  a  ragged  series  of  stone  stairs. 


BALCONY   DAYS 

CCO!  "  cried  First  Murderer  and  pointed 
up  the  steep.  "  La  e  la  Villa  Cercola!  " 
Instantly  his  personality  changed  in 
our  eyes  to  that  of  the  ordinaiy  porter 
doing  his  humble  duty  faithfully. 

"  But  how  ever  can  you  cUmb  those  cruel  stairs!  " 
This  time  it  was  Filia's  voice  that  trembled,  but  not 
for  herself. 

"  Never  fear  for  me.  We  are  getting  on  finely,"  I 
declared  vaUantly.  "  Va  bene,  va  bene,  carissima." 
This  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  facchino,  who  was 
growing  anxious  as  to  our  powers  of  endurance. 

"  But  you  were  so  ill  this  morning.  If  only  I  could 
carry  you  up!  " 

"  You  can't,  and  luckily  I  can  walk.  Now,  —  for- 
ward! Slow  and  steady  will  do  it,  and  when  once 
we're  there  how  we  shall  rest!  " 

In  a  few  minutes  we  stood,  weary,  dusty  way- 
farers, at  the  door  of  the  Villa  Cercola,  rang  the  bell 
and  entered  a  charming  drawing-room.     Well  feed, 

59 


60  The  Spell  of  Italy 

our  faccliino  departed,  and  we  dropped  each  into  a 
cushioned  chair  and  looked  about  us  with  a  dehcious 
sense  of  "  Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?  " 
This  first  sensation,  rapturous  fairly  after  the  pro- 
longed strain  and  stress  of  our  search,  was  succeeded 
by  a  curious  misgiving.  Was  there  some  mistake? 
The  trim,  white-capped  maid  had  had  a  certain  air 
of  surprise  when  we  entered  the  room  as  one  enters 
a  hotel.  This  room  in  which  we  sat  bore  every  mark 
of  the  delightful  privacies  of  home ;  there  were  books 
in  endless  profusion;  lovely  sketches  in  water-colour 
covered  the  walls;  there  was  a  dainty  work-basket  on 
the  table  under  the  softly  shaded  lamp;  there  was  — 
our  landlady  at  last! 

A  stately  woman  in  dinner  gown  of  black  silk  and 
lace  swept  into  the  room,  and  with  a  cool  perplexity 
of  pohteness  bade  us  a  formal  good  evening.  An 
EngUshwoman   beyond   a   doubt.     Was   this    Mrs. 

N ?   It  was.    This  was  the  Villa  Cercola  surely,  a 

pensione  recommended  by  an  American  youth  named 
Benny  Bacon? 

The  lady's  manner  relaxed  slightly.  Yes,  that 
young  gentleman  had  once  been  her  guest.  I  ex- 
pressed the  trcmbhng  hope  that  I  too  might  be  so 

fortunate.    Mrs.  N smiled  not  unkindly,  but  that 

would  be  quite  impossible.  Her  house  was  small, 
exclusive,  and  just  then  quite  full.  She  never  en- 
tertained transient  travellers,  only  those  who  wrote  to 


Balcony  Days  61 

her  in  advance  and  brought  introduction  from  friends 
of  her  own.  Hers  was  not  a  pensione  in  the  ordinary 
sense.  We  had  not  written;  we  were  not  expected; 
we  could  not  be  received. 

All  this  time  she  stood  inflexibly,  and  we,  taking 
our  cue  of  necessity,  stood  also.  But  now,  brought 
quite  to  bay,  faintness  overtook  me  and  I  sank  down 
on  a  sofa.  Then  came  Fiha  to  the  rescue,  clear-eyed 
and  dauntless.  Rapidly  she  made  explanation  of  all 
the  circumstances,  my  illness,  our  sudden  departure 
from  Naples  by  the  doctor's  orders. 

"  I  can  sit  on  the  doorstep,  Mrs.  N ,  all  night 

perfectly  well,  you  know,"  she  concluded  with  spirit; 
"  but  I  think  you  will  really  have  to  give  my  mother 
shelter  for  the  night.  She  is  exhausted.  We  will 
go  on  in  the  morning." 

Passion  and  pathos  mingled  in  Filia's  plea,  but 
swiftly  another  element  entered,  —  her  sense  of  the 
ridiculous,  —  and  to  the  surprise  of  all  of  us  she 
burst  into  a  long  irrepressible  peal  of  laughter. 

"  To  think  of  my  mother  having  to  beg  a  night's 
lodging!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  Benny  Bacon,  won't 
I  make  you  pay  for  this !  Why  did  you  never  say  we 
must  write  in  advance?  " 

Mrs.  N is  farthest  from  being  a  hard-hearted 

woman,  but  it  was  Filia's  sense  of  the  humour  of  the 
situation  rather  than  my  sense  of  its  pathos,  which 
proved  convincing  and  demohshed  her  fortifications 


62  The  Spell  of  Italy 

of  custom  and  caution.  She  touched  a  bell,  remarking 
that  really  she  must  see  what  could  be  done.  In  a 
moment  the  maid  brought  coffee,  which  I  took  in 
silence,  not  without  salty  admixture,  being  reduced 
to  utter  weakness.  Meanwhile  Mrs.  N was  cor- 
dially proposing  "  the  studio  "  to  my  intrepid  Filia, 
for  the  night,  if  we  thought  we  could  possibly  put  up 
with  such  improvised  accomodation;  there  was  not 
a  bedroom  free  in  the  house. 

We  thought  it  possible !  A  little  later,  having  par- 
taken of  what  seemed  to  us  celestial  fare  in  our 
famished  condition,  we  were  taken  to  the  studio,  and 
found  it  large  and  lofty  as  a  chapel  and  luxurious  to  a 
degree  with  sundry  big  divans.  I  have  never  been 
able  to  recall  clearly  the  incidents  of  that  evening, 
but  in  the  morning  we  both  awoke  renewed  in  vigour, 
much  inclined  to  laugh  over  our  perils  of  the  pre- 
ceding night. 

"  Colours  seen  by  candle  light 
Do  not  look  the  same  by  day." 

We  came  down  to  breakfast  on  the  terrace  of  an 
exquisite  garden  in  view  of  marvellous  cHffs  and  a 
turquoise  sea,  from  which  the  salt  wind  blew  pure 
and  sweet.  Mrs.  N  —  welcomed  us  as  if  we  had  been 
old  friends.  What  is  better,  we  soon  were.  Begun  in 
gloom  and  dread,  our  sojourn  in  Capri  was  trans- 
formed in  the  hours  of  that  May  morning  to  an  ex- 


Balcony  Days  63 


perience  of  incomparable  delight.  To  return  to  the 
sweet  and  peaceful  companionship  and  atmosphere  of 
Villa  Cercola  and  there  abide  has  become  the  dream 
within  the  dream. 

If  I  do  not  describe  the  island,  the  Blue  Grotto, 
the  "  Timberio,"  the  vineyards,  the  cliffs,  the  sea, 
the  drive  to  Anacapri,  it  is  because  the  guide-book 
will  enumerate  them,  and  their  beauty  no  one  can 
ever  know  until  his  day  of  visitation  comes. 

And  I  must  save  some  space  for  Sorrento  and  the 
Salernian  Gulf! 

From  Capri  we  took  an  early  morning  steamer. 
We  were  bound  for  Sorrento,  and  yet  we  quietly  re- 
mained on  the  boat  when  she  made  the  Sorrento 
landing,  and  were  carried  on  to  Castellamare.  We 
chose  to  approach  by  land,  by  the  far-famed  road 
above  the  bay  to  traverse  those  matchless  ten  miles 
between  Castellamare  and  Sorrento,  matchless  that 
is  until  one  drives  on  to  Amalfi  and  on  thence  again 
to  Vietri. 

This  drive  was  our  first  long  land  excursion  and  a 
revelation  of  incredible  beauty,  the  road  winding 
between  groves  of  ohve  and  lemon  and  orange  orchards 
with  recurring  glimpses  of  the  sea  in  its  purity  of 
ultra  and  aquamarine  hues.  As  we  approached  Meta 
and  the  vast  and  noble  Piano  (floor  or  plateau)  of 
Sorrento  stretched  before  us,  its  rich  verdure  cut 
here   and    there    by    the   austerities    of    cliff   and 


64  The  Spell  of  Italy 

mountain  pass,  we  ceased  to  speak  for  joy  and 
wonder. 

One's  faculty  of  admiration  cannot  be  kept  up  at 
concert  pitch  for  ever;  the  descent  to  a  cool  and  com- 
fortable hotel  with  the  ordinary  surroundings  of 
domesticity  came  at  last  as  a  relief.  "  Troppo  ricco! 
troppo  bello!  "  I  learned  to  say  in  my  staccato  and 
unarticulated  Italian.  There  is  a  beauty  which  is 
more  than  can  be  borne. 

I  know  of  but  one  English  writer  who  has  been 
gifted  to  put  into  words  the  spirit  of  this  enchanted 
shore.     John  Addington  Symonds  has  written :  ^ 

"Farewell  to  Capri,  welcome  to  Sorrento!  The 
roads  are  sweet  with  scent  of  acacia  and  orange 
flowers.  When  you  walk  in  a  garden  at  night,  the 
white  specks  beneath  your  feet  are  fallen  petals  of 
lemon  blossoms.  Over  the  walls  hang  cataracts  of 
roses,  honey-pale  clusters  of  the  Banksia  rose,  and 
pink  bushes  of  the  china  rose,  growing  as  we  never 
see  them  grow  with  us.  The  gray  rocks  wave  with 
gladiolus  —  feathers  of  crimson,  set  amid  tufts  of 
rosemary  and  myrtle  and  tree-spurge.  In  the  clefts 
of  sandstone  and  behind  the  orchard  walls  sleeps  a 
dark  green  night  of  fohage,  in  the  midst  of  which 
gleam  globed  orange  and  lemons  dropping  hke 
great  pearls  of  palest  amber  dew.  .  .  .  Overhead 
soar  stone-pines  —  a  roof  of  sombre  green,  a  lattice- 

»"  Sketches  in  Italy,"  I. 


Balcony  Days  65 

work  of  strong  red  branches  through  which  the 
moon  peers  wonderfully." 

The  hotels  of  Sorrento  are  peculiarly  attractive,  by 
reason  of  their  chff  gardens,  their  unfaihng  prospect 
over  the  Bay  of  Naples,  their  air  of  quiet  comfort 
and  of  refined,  unostentatious  luxury.  We  chose  the 
Cocumella  rather  by  chance,  and  found  it  somewhat 
old  and  shabby  as  to  furniture  and  decorations,  but 
immeasurably  dchghtful  in  its  garden.  A  balcony 
from  our  bedroom  hanging  out  into  the  tree-tops  of 
an  orange  orchard,  a  balcony  where  in  the  morning 
we  could  have  our  Loaf  of  Bread  beneath  the  Bough, 
the  Flask  of  Wine,  the  Book  of  Verse  —  and  Thou, 
made  us  exult  in  our  choice. 

So  in  the  Cocumella  we  Hngered  as  long  as  we  might, 
and  here  I  began  the  Italian  journal,  to  write  which 
I  had  heretofore  been  too  indolent.  It  is  an  intermit- 
tent, a  famihar  record,  and  a  fragmentary,  but  it  has 
the  advantage  of  absolute  freshness  of  impression, 
undiluted  by  after  thought,  and  for  this  reason  I 
turn  to  it  now  for  the  story  of  this  one  May 
week. 

Sorrento,  May  12,  8  a.m. 
In  a  Balcony. 
We  are  waiting  for  our  locusts  and  wild  honey, 
ambrosia  and  nectar  —  whatever  one  has  for  break- 
fast in  Paradise.     We  are  waiting  somewhat  lux- 


66  The  Spell  of  Italy 

uriously  in  negligee  and  are  enjoying  our  freedom  and 
privacy  in  high  degree.  Also  the  tesselated  pavement 
of  this  balcony,  in  blue  and  white  and  yellow,  satisfies 
me  particularly;  the  massive  white  marble  balus- 
trade thrown  out  against  the  background  of  glossy 
leaves  yonder  gives  me  a  curious  pleasure.  The 
fragrance  of  the  lemon  and  orange  blossoms  in  this 
morning  freshness  is  pecuharly  delicious.  Above  the 
tree-tops  we  see  the  blue,  blue  bay  and  still  farther 
the  tinted  town  just  showing  through  the  morning 
mists  like  a  string  of  jewels.  I  love  Naples  still  —  is 
it  a  week  since  we  left  it?  —  but  I  did  not  divine  Italy 
even  in  Naples.  I  am  afraid  I  have  lost  my  head 
entirely  with  the  beauty  of  Capri  and  Sorrento.  Do 
people  ever  go  beauty-mad  here?  I  wonder.  Gladly 
I  would  give  up  all  our  scheme  of  travel  and  spend 
three  months  here  in  bhss  in  Sorrento.  I  never 
dreamed  that  we  were  coming  into  such  another 
world,  this  bewildering  yet  ordered  wilderness  of 
flowers  and  palms,  of  pomegranate,  fig,  aloe  and 
acacia,  of  tropical  luxuriance  and  odours  most 
precious,  of  sternness  and  softness,  of  mountain,  sea 
and  sky!  Why  did  no  one  forewarn  me  of  what  it 
would  mean  to  strike  into  Southern  Italy  in  May, 
into  this  lavishness  of  natural  beauty  with  the  sug- 
gestions of  art  and  the  whole  human  story  as  far  back 
as  Ulysses  superadded?  But  at  this  moment  such 
suggestions  are  superfluous,  for  just  now  — 


Balcony  Days  67 

''  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms  are  to  me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 
That  have  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm 
By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrow'd  from  the  eye." 

My  Wordsworth  was  interrupted  by  the  breakfast 
tray.  Even  Italian  coffee  is  a  joy  when  tasted  on 
this  balcony.    But  I  return  to  my  reflections. 

The  spell  of  Italy !  In  what  does  it  consist?  Thus 
far,  in  Southern  Italy  the  appeal  is  to  the  Senses 
and  the  Imagination,  and  it  is  overpowering.  In 
Rome  I  know  full  well  the  appeal  will  be  to  the  In- 
tellect through  antiquity  and  the  historic  sense,  and 
in  my  present  relaxed  mood  I  shrink  from  the  hard 
work  it  must  mean  to  do  one's  duty  by  it.  When 
we  reach  the  Hill  Towns,  Siena,  Perugia,  Assisi,  we 
shall  feel  most,  no  doubt,  the  power  of  the  Religious 
Sense  and  the  love  of  primitive,  dawning  Religious 
Art.  In  Florence  we  shall  find  Art  at  its  top  and 
height  of  perfection,  and  I  suppose  it  will  be  as  mad- 
deningly beautiful  —  perhaps  —  as  Nature !  In  Ven- 
ice I  shall  escape  too  strong  emotions.  The  supreme 
appeal  there  must  be  to  the  Spectacular  Sense.  I 
can  bear  that  calmly  I  am  sure.  When  we  reach  the 
Lake  Region  we  shall  have  completed  the  cycle  of 
experience  and  the  appeal  will  be  somewhat,  as  here 


68  The  Spell  of  Italy 

in  Sorrento,  to  the  love  of  nature,  to  the  senses  and 
the  poetic  instinct. 

(This  chemical  analysis  of  the  Spell  of  Italy  was 
borne  out  by  later  experience.  The  appeal  to  the 
senses,  however,  in  the  Lake  Region  is  a  graver  one, 
with  less  of  intoxication  and  more  of  sentiment,  than 
the  appeal  of  Southern  Italy.) 

In   a   Balcony,   Sorrento, 
Evening,  May  14. 

We  have  explored  the  town,  which  is  rightly  called 
La  Gentile,  being  gently  pretty  but  uninteresting. 
People  buy  laces  there,  also  carved  wood,  and  we 
met  stu'ring  American  women  purchasing  to  them- 
selves garments  of  the  silk  of  Sorrento.  I  suppose  we 
shall  come  to  dress-making  if  we  are  in  Italy  long 
enough;  just  now  it  seems  an  impertinence. 

There  is  a  statue  of  Tasso  in  the  Piazza,  and  we 
found  our  way  to  the  Strada  San  Nicola  and  the 
house  where  Cornelia  Tasso  received  her  ill-starred 
but  adored  brother  when  he  fled  in  1577  from  Ferrara 
in  disguise.  Was  ever  a  more  piteous  story  than  that 
of  this  highly  endowed  but  self-torturing  misan- 
thrope and  the  baffling  mystery  of  his  relation  with 
Leonora  d'Este?  Thoughts  of  Goethe  seemed  to 
haunt  me  all  the  morning,  for  I  know  he  must  have 
wandered  through  these  steep  streets  and  Angered 
on  these  cUffs  of  Sorrento  brooding  over  Tasso's 


TASSO    BEFORE    LENORA    D  ESTE,    BY    KAULBACH. 


Balcony  Days  69 


passionate  conflicts  with  the  repression  of  a  narrow 
provincial  court  and  an  untold  love  for  its  mistress. 
I  have  always  thought  that  Kaulbach,  in  his  Tasso 
before  Leonora  d'Este,  drew  Goethe's  physical  por- 
trait; I  suppose  no  one  doubts  that  in  his  Tasso 
Goethe  drew  his  own  spiritual  portrait. 

There  is  little  of  actual  suggestion  of  the  Age  of 
Augustus  here  in  Sorrento,  and  yet  I  find  as  I  am 
here  longer  a  sense  of  antiquity  creeping  in,  becoming 
more  and  more  haunting;  perhaps  it  is  preparing  us 
for  Rome.  Always  about  us  are  memories  and 
whispers  of  the  Homeric  age,  and  of  civihzations 
ancient,  august,  universal,  such  as  make  the  oldest 
memorials  and  traditions  of  Northern  Europe  seem 
meagre  and  modern,  wliile  those  of  our  own  country 
are  things  of  yesterday,  raw  and  crude,  stamped  with 
the  imprint  of  the  local,  the  provincial,  the  tran- 
sient. 

I  reaUze  that  on  these  shores  of  Capri,  of  Naples, 
of  the  ancient  SmTentum,  have  lived  for  ages  upon 
ages  men  and  women  of  high  intellectual  endowment 
and  developed  aesthetic  sense,  upon  whom  no  scintilla 
of  the  glory  and  the  gleam  of  sky  and  sea,  no  fra- 
grance of  orange  blossom  or  mist  of  the  oHve,  no 
curve  or  line  of  beauty,  no  tint  of  shell  or  rose,  no 
touch  of  poetry  or  romance,  was  ever  lost.  Not  only 
has  all  this  beauty  existed  from  everlasting,  but  the 
habit  and  power  by  which  to  interpret  it  have  also 


70  The  Spell  of  Italy 

been  here  from  everlasting.  The  grandeur  of  the 
mountains,  the  luxuriance  of  the  valleys,  have  ex- 
pressed themselves  in  human  character  and  action 
throughout  the  centuries.  Perfection  and  the  passion 
for  perfection  are  here,  race-old.  So  we  feel  ourselves 
surrounded  by  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  imposing,  thrill- 
ing, subduing. 

And  we  are  not  minded  yet  to  accumulate  knick- 
knacks  of  painted  wood  and  gowns  of  silk.  I  am 
keenly  impressed  with  the  conviction  that  the  Italian 
journey  should  result  in  something  more  than  a  little 
accumulation  of  trinkets  and  post  cards.  Still,  I 
shall  no  doubt  continue  to  buy  the  post  cards  as  I  go, 
and  dear  Fiha,  in  her  innocent  savagery,  will  continue 
to  adorn  herself  with  beads. 

Amalfi,  Cappucini-Marina, 
Evening,  May  15. 

We  left  Sorrento  early  in  the  afternoon,  our  lug- 
gage with  us,  in  a  comfortable  two-horse  carriage  in 
charge  of  a  trusty  driver;  every  arrangement  was 
made  for  our  comfort  and  convenience  by  our  oblig- 
ing and  intelligent  maitre  d'hotcl. 

We  have  driven  for  three  hours  through  the  most 
glorious  scenery  I  am  satisfied  this  earth  affords,  and 
the  expedition  has  cost  ten  lire !  Why  do  people  at 
home  spend  hundreds  of  dollars  to  see  that  which  is 
by  comparison  naught? 


Balcony  Days  71 

At  first  we  drove  inland,  crossing  the  Peninsula  of 
Sorrento  until  at  Positano  the  road  curved  around 
precipices  rising  perpendicularly  above  the  sea.  And 
there  out  in  the  blue  water  lay  three  small,  rugged, 
rocky  islands,  the  GalU,  so  the  driver  said,  but  we 
knew  them  for  the  Isles  of  the  Sirens  and  bade  him 
stop.  I  reminded  Filia  then  of  her  Homer  and  how 
"  the  good  ship  of  renowned  Odysseus  quickly  came 
to  the  island  of  the  Sirens  twain,  for  a  gentle  breeze 
sped  her  on  her  way;  how  straightway  the  wind 
ceased,  and  lo,  there  was  a  windless  calm,  and  some 
god  lulled  the  waves;  how  then  Odysseus  anointed 
with  wax  the  ears  of  all  his  men  and  how  in  the  ship 
they  bound  him  hand  and  foot  upright  to  the  mast- 
head while  they  themselves  smote  the  gray  sea  water 
with  their  oars." 

"  How  fine  of  you  to  remember  it,"  said  Filia. 
"  Can't  you  tell  more?  It  gives  me  a  dehcious  httle 
shiver  to  think  we  dare  look  at  the  very  spot." 

"  I  remember  that  the  Sirens  espied  the  swift  ship 
speeding  toward  them  and  raised  their  clear-toned 
song:  '  Hither,  come  hither,  renowned  Odysseus, 
here  stay  thy  barque  and  Hsten,  for  none  hath  ever 
driven  by  this  way  in  his  black  ship,  tiU  he  hath 
heard  from  our  lips  the  voice  sweet  as  honeycomb 
and  hath  had  joy  thereof  and  gone  on  his  way  the 
wiser.'  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  then,"  Filia  exclaimed,  "  that  he  said 


72  The  Spell  of  Italy 

'Unhand  me,  gentlemen!'  or  was  that  Hamlet? 
Words  to  that  effect  anyway,  and  liis  men  were  wiser 
than  he  and  only  tightened  his  cords.  I  have  read 
my  Homer  too,  if  you  please." 

"HoffentUch!  It  may  have  been  almost  on  the 
very  site  of  Positano  that  the  ancient  Sanctuaiy  of 
the  Sirens  stood.  Filia,  we  are  without  doubt  in  a 
region  of  enchantment.  Somewhere  about  is  the 
Land  of  the  Lotus-Eaters.  Do  you  know  I  fear  I 
have  already  tasted  the  fruit  of  the  lotus  and  shall 
choose  here  to  abide,  forgetful  of  the  homeward 
way?  " 

"Avanti!" 

Filia  gave  the  order  with  firm  emphasis  and  a 
smile  aside  at  me. 

"  We  will  order  ropes  and  wax  for  you  as  soon  as 
we  get  to  the  hotel  in  Amalfi,"  she  added. 

We  laughed  at  ourselves,  but  the  spell  was  laid 
before  ever  I  saw  the  Isles  of  the  Sirens,  and  remains, 
to  be  "  felt  in  the  blood  and  felt  along  the  heart." 
I  must  find  Tennyson's  "  Lotus  Eaters  "  somewhere 
soon  and  read  it  again,  for  I  dimly  understand  it 
now;  heretofore  it  has  always  seemed  to  my  New 
England  intelligence  fantastic  and  shghtly  reprehen- 
sible. What  provincials  we  arc  at  best !  But  I  never 
knew  how  provincial  until  now. 

And  so  we  came  toward  Amalfi ! 


VI 

RAVELLO 

Amalfi,  May  16. 
|AST  night  we  saw  Amalfi  steeped  in  moon- 
light and  echoed  Symonds's  comment  that 
it  is  "  difficult  not  to  be  rhapsodical "  on  a 
May  night  in  Amalfi  when  stars  "  stand  on 
all  the  peaks  and  twinkle  down  the  craggy  sides," 
when  the  "  mountains,  with  light-irradiated  chasms 
and  hard  shadows  cast  upon  the  rock  by  the  moon 
soar  up  above  a  city  built  of  alabaster,  or  sea-foam  or 
summer  clouds."  I  reminded  Fiha  how  many  times  in 
Devonshire  we  were  told  that  that  dear  and  homely 
Uttle  nest  of  Clovelly  was  like  Amalfi.  Even  so  a 
parish  church  may  be  hke  Cologne  Cathedral.  The 
motif  is  perhaps  the  same ;  both  are  Gothic.  Amalfi 
is  built,  hke  Clovelly,  on  its  own  shoulders,  but 
every  chff  village  on  our  way  here  was  so  also  of 
necessity.  On  the  whole,  I  repudiate  the  Hkeness, 
while  I  still  love  to  let  my  thoughts  nestle  in 
Clovelly.  I  could  be  content  to  stay  there  longer 
than   in  Amalfi,  where  no   thought    of  mine  could 

73 


74  The  Spell  of  Italy 

ever  "  nestle."  The  place  seems  to  me  wholly 
Oriental,  Moorish,  yes,  if  I  say  utter  truth,  semi- 
barbaric,  and  a  spectacle,  a  piece  of  scene-painting. 

Let  me  sketch  what  I  see  now  as  I  sit  at  ten  in  the 
morning  in  my  balcony. 

Some  explanation  seems  required  by  the  circum- 
stance that  we  are  not  up  above  Amalfi  in  the  far- 
famed  Capuchin  Convent.  We  have,  in  fact,  flown 
straight  in  the  face  of  every  tradition  of  the  American 
traveller  by  not  going  to  that  old  hostelry,  with  its 
far-famed  pergola,  in  which  on  every  post  card 
sent  home  the  typical  monk,  never  flitting  still  is 
sitting,  still  is  sitting.  Sometimes  the  monk  is  young 
and  something  of  a  winner;  usually  he  has  a  white 
beard  of  the  Saint  Jerome  variety  and  appears  to 
be  suffering  with  Welt-schmerz ;  but  always  he  sits 
at  that  one  corner  of  the  pergola.  It  is  remarkable 
how  long  he  sustains  his  appeal  to  one's  imagination, 
but  after  the  thirtieth  or  fortieth  reproduction  I 
find  the  reponsive  chord  fails  to  thrill.  I  realize  that 
the  monk  is  —  not  a  lay  brother,  but  a  lay  figure! 
So,  the  charm  of  the  Capuchin  hostelry,  sopra,  hav- 
ing lost  a  little  of  its  force,  and  four  hundred  stone 
steps  seeming  something  of  an  impediment,  we 
stopped  at  this  Capuchin  hostelry,  sotto,  just  over 
the  edge  of  Amalfi's  bay.  It  is  over  the  lucid,  sun-lit 
waves  of  that  water  that  this  balcony  hangs;  gay 
httle  sail-boats  are  gliding  over  them,  and  on  the  yel- 


Ravello  75 

low  sands  Caliban-shaped  fishermen  are  stretching 
their  long  brown  nets.  Abruptly  from  the  Marina  rise 
the  tall  house-fronts,  piled  above  each  other  on  every 
point  of  vantage  afforded  by  the  steep  chff;  they 
show  strange,  tortuous  connecting  galleries,  crum- 
pled red  roofs,  open  belfries  of  soft  pink  stucco,  and, 
like  a  huge  pistil  in  the  centre  of  a  gorgeous  exotic 
blossom,  the  Cathedral  tower,  ghttering  in  green  and 
yellow  mosaic.  This  note  of  the  Byzantine  rule  in 
Italy,  the  first  I  have  observed,  has  a  strange  effect, 
—  the  Oriental  hardness  of  colour  laid  over  this 
Italian  softness. 

Since  I  have  taken  my  place  here  there  has  ap- 
peared, passing  down  the  long  flight  of  stairs  from 
the  Cathedral  and  turning  to  the  left  along  the 
Marina,  a  procession  of  extraordinary  and  vivid 
picturesqueness.  That  it  was  a  misericordia,  or 
funeral  procession,  appeared,  to  solemnize  no  one, 
and  to  us  it  bore  the  aspect  of  a  brilliant  carnival 
scene.  A  confraternity  of  barefooted  Franciscan 
friars  in  brown  was  followed  by  a  guild  of  men  of 
Amalfi  in  white  linen  caftans  and  long  white  Unen 
cassocks  or  smocks,  over  which  were  worn  deep  capes 
and  sashes  of  delicate  blue.  After  these  a  company  in 
the  same  white  Hnen,  with  caps  and  sashes  of  soft 
rose  colour;  next  emerald  green,  then  black  with  the 
white,  following  which  came  the  catafalque  carried 
aloft,  preceded  by  a  considerable  escort  of  priests  in 


76  The  Spell  of  Italy 

black  and  crimson  silk  vestments.  Just  before  the 
priests  walked  strange  masked  figures  clothed  from 
head  to  foot  in  white,  with  shts  cut  in  the  masks  for 
the  eyes.  Beside  the  coffin  walked  a  number  of 
nuns  in  deep  blue  costume,  with  the  enormous,  stiffly 
starched  white  caps  of  their  order.  They  appeared 
to  have  the  office  of  supporting  the  mourners,  who, 
however,  bore  themselves  with  as  much  sang  froid 
as  the  rest.  They  were  young  women,  wearing  long 
white  embroidered  veils  thrown  over  their  heads, 
falling  on  all  sides  nearly  to  the  ground.  On  the 
whole  a  very  cheerful  funeral,  we  thought,  as  we 
watched  tliis  rainbow  vivante  moving  along  the 
Marina  and  winding  up  the  steep  street,  the  dazzhng 
cream-white  fagades  of  the  houses  throwing  every 
gradation  of  colour  into  high  rehef. 


Ravello,  Pensione  Palumbo,  May  17. 
We  left  Amalfi  yesterday  after  dinner,  which,  by 
the  way,  was  an  event  to  be  recorded.  There  was 
red  mullet,  fresh  caught  from  those  clear  green 
waters,  and  served  with  an  incomparable  sauce 
piquante;  there  was  quail  with  most  delicate  petits 
pois;  and  there  was  a  souffle  which  will  shine  far 
through  the  memory.  The  interesting  exercise  of 
appreciation  over,  we  were  again,  as  at  Sorrento, 
stowed,  with  our  luggage,  into  a  carriage  and  bidden 


Ravello  77 

multifarious  farewell  at  the  inn  door  to  the  chnk  of 
much  small  coin.  The  bronze-faced,  bandit-hke 
coachman  made  a  picture  with  a  gay  silk  hand- 
kerchief knotted  around  his  muscular  throat.  We 
started  off  in  a  style  rather  noisy  for  my  taste,  driv- 
ing up  and  away  from  Amalfi  with  boisterous  cries  of 
"Aie!  Aie!"  and  crackings  of  the  long  whip-lash 
which  seemed  to  threaten  our  heads  much  more  than 
the  head  of  the  dejected  horse. 

We  were  bound  for  RaveUo,  a  cluster  of  mysterious 
ruins  topping  the  spur  of  Monte  Cerreto  above 
Amalfi  and  Atrani.  Fortunately  no  one  asked  us, 
"  What  go  ye  out  for  to  see  ? "  for  we  should 
hardly  have  known  how  to  answer.  Our  reading  had 
given  us  no  clear-cut  impression  of  Ravello;  our 
hearing  had  been  a  confusion  of  despairing  ad- 
jectives and  exclamation  points,  ending  with  the 
emphatic  summary,  ''  Oh  you  miist  go  there!  "  with 
which  was  always  mingled  some  mention  of  Madame 
Palumbo. 

But  both  hearing  and  reading  of  Ravello  had  been 
but  scanty,  and  we  were  led  to  beheve  that  Ravello 
and  Madame  Palumbo  were  a  cult,  a  species  of 
esoteric  mystery  into  which  only  the  few  elect  were 
privileged  to  enter.  Our  curiosity  was  piqued,  and 
when  Ravello  was  but  a  mile  above  us  in  a  straight 
Hne,  we  proposed  to  beat  at  its  gates  for  admission. 
And  Madame  Palumbo?    That  talismanic  name  it 


78  The  Spell  of  Italy 

appeared  belonged  to  a  pensione.  It  must  then  be 
accessible,  for  a  consideration. 

Ravello  in  a  straight  Hne,  as  the  bird  wings  and 
sings,  may  be  but  a  mile,  but  as  the  dejected  Amalfi 
horse,  urged  on  by  his  picturesque  piratical  master, 
crawled  upward,  it  appeared  not  less  than  seven. 
An  hour  and  a  half  of  unsteady  pulling  in  a  steady, 
unrelenting  sun  up  the  side  of  the  desolate  valley  of 
the  Dragone,  with  the  tawny  ruins  of  Ravello  top- 
pling just  above  our  heads,  —  but,  as  it  seemed  ever 
more  receding  as  we  advanced,  — •  had  interesting 
features,  but  it  was  also  something  of  an  endurance 
test.  But  at  last  we  saw  by  a  sudden  influx  of 
spirit  in  our  bandit  driver  that  the  goal  must  be 
near.  Again  the  air  resounded  with  shouts  of  "  Aie! 
Aie!  "  again  the  whip-lash  cracked  over  our  heads, 
the  poor  exhausted  horse  was  goaded  on  to  one 
last  spurt  of  energy,  and  we  rattled  into  a  small, 
shaded  Piazza,  over  which  brooded  in  silence  a 
crumbhng  Romanesque  Cathedral.  On  the  other 
side  rose  a  curious  range  of  low,  half-fallen,  stone 
house  fronts,  one  of  which  bore  the  sign  "  Posta- 
Telegrafi.  " 

"  R-r-ravell-1-lo !  "  shouted  the  bandit,  with  the 
inimitable  Italian  roll  of  the  r  and  liquid  lingering  on 
the  double  I  which  turns  the  word  to  music. 

The  first  ordeal  of  initiation  then  was  over!  We 
alighted,  dismissed  the  bandit  with  a  sense  of  relief 


Ravello  79 

and  a  regalo  and  looked  around  us.  Lo,  a  man  with 
a  sign  on  his  cap-band,  —  "Hotel  Pension  Polumbo!" 
Into  his  hands  we  gladly  entrusted  our  belongings 
and  followed  him  —  up  a  stretch  of  steep,  rocky, 
roughly  paved  cliff  side  between  high  walls,  over- 
grown with  stone  crop  and  ivy,  with  here  and  there 
a  tuft  of  vivid  poppies,  blooming  in  a  cranny. 

It  was  as  bewildering  as  Amalfi  in  its  irrelevant, 
unrelated  glimpses  into  side  passages,  deep  arch- 
ways and  down  narrow  lanes  between  pastel-coloured 
house  fronts.  But  it  was  aU  over  in  five  minutes, 
for  now,  on  a  long,  low  stretch  of  pink  plaster  wall, 
embowered  in  clambering  tea  roses,  we  read  the 
sign  "  Palumbo." 

In  a  moment  we  had  entered  a  cool,  shaded,  and 
tiled  court  of  the  former  Bishop's  Palace.  Vast, 
pear-shaped  jars  of  water  stood  about,  and  flowers 
bloomed  on  every  side  mingled  with  tubs  of  dark, 
glossy-leaved  laurel  and  euonymus.  A  gentlewoman 
whose  refined  face  seemed  to  possess  a  decidedly 
English  cast,  whose  gray  hair  was  smoothly  parted, 
and  whose  trim  figm-e  was  set  off  by  a  neat  little 
apron,  stepped  forward  to  meet  us.  Madame  Pa- 
lumbo without  doubt,  for  the  manner  of  repose  and 
quiet  dignity  told  unmistakably  that  we  were  in  the 
presence  of  a  personage. 

This  time  we  were  expected  and  need  not  fear  to 
find  closed  doors  indicated  by  that  restrained  gravity 


80  The  Spell  of  Italy 

of  Madame 's  manner.  She  led  us  from  the  court 
on  which  the  various  kitchens,  offices,  salons,  and 
pantries  open,  into  a  suite  of  vast,  dim  rooms,  as 
cool  as  marble  halls.  Strange  to  us  then  was  their 
altogether  English  air.  We  had  been  in  them  in 
Surrey,  —  in  Kent,  —  with  their  massive  furniture, 
their  lofty  walls  and  cretonne  hangings,  their  great 
toilet  equipages,  their  cosy  fire  places,  their  Venetian 
Winds  through  which  only  a  ray  of  sun  could  filter. 
Yes,  Madame  has  brought  English  comfort  to  this 
far  off,  intolerantly  wild  desolation  of  Monte  Cerreto. 

Ravello,  Pensione  Palumbo,  May  18. 

Filia  has  announced  that  she  will  never  marry 
any  man  who  will  not  bring  her  here  for  the  wedding 
journey.  The  situation  is  beautiful  beyond  de- 
scription, a  combination  of  sternness  in  the  ensemble 
with  luxuriant  softness  in  the  detail  which  surpasses 
even  Capri  and  Sorrento. 

Our  casement  windows  on  the  east  open  upon  a 
great  paved  terrace  overhanging  the  Gulf  of  Salerno 
and  full-fronting  the  austere  and  jagged  peak  of 
Monte  Fenestra.  The  terrace  rail  is  embowered  in 
a  wealth  of  Banksia  roses  and  the  white  stone  seat 
lining  the  parapet  conjures  an  Alma  Tadema  picture 
instantly  before  our  eyes. 

Below  us  in  their  narrow  valleys  cluster  the  small 
hamlets  of  Minori  and  Maiori  with  their  tiny  strip 


Ravello  81 

of  beach,  the  high  road  to  Salerno  passing  around 
the  chff's  edge  like  a  thread.  The  bold  headland 
of  Capo  d'Orso  bounds  the  near  view,  where  the 
turquoise  blue  water  of  the  gulf  laps  its  feet,  but 
beyond  the  cliffs  and  beyond  the  sea  hes  the  far 
plain  of  Paestum,  and,  rising  beyond,  the  still  snowy 
peaks  of  the  Apennines,  faintly  outHned  hke  a  vision 
of  some  jewelled  City  Celestial  through  the  sun- 
steeped  haze. 

From  the  terrace  southward  stretches  a  pergola 
whose  pillars  are  densely  covered  with  ivy,  while 
vines  and  roses  meet  on  the  wide-woven  lattice  over- 
head. Here,  in  an  embrasure  of  massive  wall  and 
pillar,  thick  framed  in  i\^,  I  am  sitting  at  a  small 
marble  table  to  write.  The  stillness  is  profound,  un- 
broken save  by  a  far-off  bell  ringing  mid-day.  The 
noon  heat  is  slumberous  but  without  oppressiveness; 
the  ivy  leaves  rustic  in  a  breeze  of  \'ivifying  freshness, 
and  over  the  paths  beyond  where  I  sit  and  over 
my  head  the  shadows  of  vine-leaves  and  great  pink 
and  yellow  roses  play  with  the  sunshine.  The  sea- 
shell  tints  in  these  great,  crushed  Marechal  Niels  are 
an  exquisite  feast  to  the  eye,  but  the  glowing  saffron 
of  the  Alan  Richardsons  is  beyond  them.  I  am  over- 
borne with  the  beauty  of  the  roses  as  in  the  Villa 

L in  Naples;  twelve  varieties  I  have  just  counted. 

I  turn  away  from  them  to  the  rigours  of  the  Lucanian 
coast  beyond  the  terrace,  and  the  mist-clothed,  far 


82  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Apennines.  Straight  before  me,  down  the  steep  cUff 
side,  rise  the  spires  of  cypress-trees;  two  umbrella 
pines  stand  up  stark  against  the  sky;  sheer  below 
me  is  the  intensely  blue  Salernian  water;  these  white, 
ivy-grown  pillars  at  my  right  hand  and  at  my  left 
frame  in  the  panel.  Oh,  my  God,  how  beautiful  it, 
all  is  —  und  dein  ist  die  Herrlichkeit  in  Ewigkeit ! 
Tears  prick  my  eyes  for  the  intolerable  loveliness, 
the  overmastering  sense  of  power  and  beauty.  In- 
voluntarily my  thoughts  run  into  German  phrases, 
long  forgotten.  Is  it  because  German  was  the  favour- 
ite language  of  my  girlhood,  and  that  the  passion  of 
this  place  makes  me  young  again? 

The  scene  is  of  a  beauty  too  noble  to  be  called  in- 
toxicating and  yet  too  sensuous  to  rouse  one  from 
feeling  and  impression  to  thought.  Madame  Pa- 
lumbo  said  last  night  in  her  quiet  way,  "  Here  is 
peace."  This  is  the  something  deepest  interfused. 
Deeper  than  the  gulf  below  me,  stiller  than  its  tideless 
flow,  sweeter  than  the  breath  of  the  roses,  more 
solemn  than  those  awful  heights  beetUng  over  Minori 
and  Maiori,  is  the  peace  of  this  place. 

There  are  people  a  plenty  who  will  come  here  and 
go  again  finding  a  well-ordered  house  in  a  situation 
of  striking  beauty,  with  a  "  fine  view,"  entitled  clearly 
to  a  Baedeker  star,  —  perhaps  a  double  star.  There 
are,  and  must  always  be,  a  few  who  will  find  here 
that  mysterious  something  of  wliich  we  were  fore- 


Ravello  83 

warned,  for,  for  the  initiated,   Ravello  has  an  im- 
partation  from  above  as  well  as  from  beneath. 

Ravello,  Pensione  Palumbo,  May  19. 

Madame  Palumbo  —  she  is  never  called  Signora 
apparently  —  interests  me  more  and  more.  Also 
she  intimidates  me  far  more  than  that  I  should 
venture  to  ask  her  questions,  for,  if  Ravello  is  a  cult, 
she  is  the  priestess  of  it,  par  excellence.  However, 
there  being  almost  no  guests  in  the  house  save  our- 
selves, our  chatelaine  seems  disposed  to  open  her 
heart  and  her  history  in  some  degree  to  us.  Perhaps 
she  finds  us  simpatica,  seeing  Filia  gone  quite  mad 
over  the  place,  which,  plainly,  she  herself  adores. 

Madame,  then,  we  find,  is  a  Bernese  by  birth  — 
how  could  she  be  Italian?  —  and  when  she  was  young 
spent  eighteen  years  in  England,  —  accounting  for 
the  Surrey-and-Kent  aspect  of  our  great  chambers. 
She  became  connected  in  some  capacity  while  in 
England  with  the  family  of  Mr.  Francis  Nevile 
Reid,  whose  wife  was  a  daughter  of  Lord  Napier. 
Whether  with  the  Reids  or  with  some  of  their  ac- 
quaintance and  kinsfolk  I  am  not  clear,  Madame 
travelled  to  Italy,  met  Signor  Palumbo  —  an  Itahan, 
and  long  since  dead  —  and  was  married  and  settled 
in  Ravello.  This  was  over  thirty  years  ago.  Ravello 
was  then  practically  unknown  save  to  Mr.  Reid,  who 
had  discovered  it  on  its  inaccessible  height  in  some 


84  The  Spell  of  Italy 

youthful  Wander  jahr.  Through  him  occasional  pil- 
grims, hearing  of  Ravello's  magnificent  memorials  of 
the  tenth  and  eleventh  centuries,  and  of  the  incredible 
beauty  of  its  scenery,  wandered  hither,  and  for  these 
and  those  who  followed  them  Madame  Palumbo 
opened  her  doors.  The  town  was  Httle  more  than  a 
cluster  of  ruined  palaces,  the  seats  of  great  and 
ancient  families  famous  in  the  days  of  Ravello's 
prosperity,  among  them  the  Rufoh,  the  d'Affliti, 
the  Confaloni.  Mr.  Reid,  in  1851,  purchased  the 
ruined  Palazzo  Rufolo,  restored  it  and  spent  some 
part  of  each  year  in  it.  Its  garden  he  made  so 
beautiful  that  Richard  Wagner  wrote  of  it:  "  Kling- 
sor's  Zaubergarten  ist  gejunden."  As  we  deduced 
from  the  crumbUng  old  cathedral  in  the  market- 
place of  Ravello,  the  place  was  formerly  the  seat 
of  a  bishop.  It  is  fortunate  now  if  it  is  the 
seat  of  a  parish  priest!  But  bishops  must  have 
palaces,  else  why  have  bishops  at  all?  Madame 
Palumbo's  mild  but  discerning  eye  discovered  in  the 
deserted,  decaying  mediaeval  abode  of  Ravello's 
bishops  possibiUties  of  modern  comfort.  After  the 
Nevile-Reids  therefore  had  established  themselves 
in  the  Rufolo  palace,  she  did  the  same  for  herself  in 
the  ecclesiastical  palace,  and  here,  all  these  thirty 
years,  she  has  remained.  The  death  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Reid,  so  intimately  bound  up  with  Ravello  and  with 
her  own  past,  leaves  her  singularly  lonely  in  this 


Ravello  85 

isolation,  but  she  will  not  be  minded  to  com- 
plain. 

Mr,  Reid  was  not  only  discoverer  of  Ravello,  but 
its  preserver,  benefactor,  re-creator.  For,  not  con- 
tent with  restoring  the  Norman  and  Saracenic 
beauties  of  Palazzo  Rufolo,  and  making  Paradiso 
of  its  garden,  he  interested  himself  vitally  in  the 
building  of  the  carriage  road  from  Atrani,  in  the  fine 
supply  of  water,  and  in  the  preservation  of  the  fast- 
decaying  monuments  of  past  grandeur  which  give 
Ravello,  aside  from  its  natural  beauty,  an  unfailing 
interest. 

That  Ravello  was  once  a  city  of  nearly  40,000 
inhabitants,  with  thirty  churches,  a  magnificent 
cathedral  and  a  group  of  grandees  capable  of  enter- 
taining King  Robert  of  Sicily,  "  brother  of  Pope 
Urbane  "  (see  Longfellow),  and  of  defying  Saracen 
and  other  heathen  invaders,  is  not  more  astonishing 
than  that  Amalfi  was  once  one  with  Atrani  and  a 
prosperous,  independent  repubhc,  with  supremacy 
on  the  sea  and  a  glorious  civiUzation  on  land.  In  the 
eleventh  century  these  two  were  rivals  and  Ravello 
won  its  present  name  —  "  the  Rebel  "  —  from  its 
refusal  to  submit  to  the  Doge  of  Amalfi.  The  Pisans 
and  the  NeapoHtans  combined  to  destroy  Amalfi, 
and  what  was  left  after  them  the  sea,  in  a  tremendous 
temporale,  laid  waste.  "\^Tiat  brought  down  the 
pride  and  prestige  of  Ravello  no  one  tells  us.    We 


86  The  Spell  of  Italy 

have  been  to  the  Cathedral  to-day  to  see  the  Byzantine 
pulpit  and  the  other  marvellous  mosaics.  I  never 
saw  a  more  subtle  interfusion  of  colour  than  in  the 
panels  of  the  pulpit.  It  bears  the  Rufolo  arms  and 
a  portrait  bust  of  the  donor's  wife,  a  noble  face  with 
rich,  braided  coronal  of  hair,  and  an  inscription: 
"  For  love  of  the  Virgin  Nicolaus  Rufulus,  Sicligaite's 
Lord,  dedicated  this  work  for  his  country's  honour." 
The  date  is  1272. 

In  spite  of  the  growing  heat  Fiha  and  I  walk  and 
walk  through  the  steep,  stony  lanes  edged  with 
maiden  hair,  shut  in  with  walls  whose  tops  are  gay 
with  roses,  and  whose  stones  are  delicately  picked 
out  with  moist,  dog-toothed  ferns,  among  which  small 
green  lizards,  vivid  as  jewels,  dart  in  the  sun.  We 
found  our  way  to  the  Belvedere  Cenfrone,  passing  an 
old  Convent  of  Santa  Chiaia,  which,  not  knowing  any 
better,  we  calmly  entered,  evidently  to  the  high  de- 
light of  two  nuns  who  came  to  a  cruel  grating  to 
gaze  at  us  hungrily  and  tell  us  we  must  not  speak  to 
them.  Their  enforced  austerity  of  silence  in  contrast 
to  their  great  wistful  eyes  and  the  deprecating  smiles 
on  the  pinched,  white,  womanish  faces  made  our 
heai'ts  ache.  We  came  away  quite  pleased  with  our- 
selves that  we  had  inadvertently  given  them  one 
chance  to  see  and  speak  with  women  from  the  world 
outside  their  prison  walls. 

At  the  Belvedere,   which  is  the  summit   of  an 


Ravello  87 

abrupt  bare  precipice  falling  perpendicularly  to  the 
Gulf,  we  were  able  better  than  before  to  gain  an  idea 
of  the  topography  of  the  region.  Ravello  is  built  on 
a  limestone  rock,  a  spur  of  Monte  Cerreto,  which 
descends  steeply  on  one  side  into  the  Valley  of  the 
Dragone  and  on  the  other  into  the  Valley  of  Minori. 
Seawards  this  ridge  ends  abruptly  at  the  point  where 
we  were  standing,  a  magnificent  prospect  of  the 
Gulf  and  of  the  whole  watershed  of  the  Sorrento 
peninsula  spread  before  us  and  on  either  side.  The 
mountain  ranges  on  the  east  and  west  slope  pre- 
cipitously to  the  sea  in  shapes  the  most  various  im- 
aginable, almost  every  prominent  peak  crowned  by 
the  ruins  of  a  Norman  castle.  Nearer  the  coast 
rise  picturesque  isolated  towers,  built  in  1530  to 
repel  the  incursions  of  Barbary  pirates,  so  the  guide- 
book lent  us  by  Madame  said.  Then  there  really 
were  such  persons  as  Barbary  pirates!  I  had  often 
used  the  term,  but  associated  it  with  the  Seven 
Sleepers  and  the  Merchant  of  Bagdad.  It  seems  im- 
possible to  know  anything  without  coming  to  Italy, 
but  still  more  impossible  when  you  come. 

Pensione    Palumbo,    Ravello, 
Night,  May  20. 
I  am  writing  on  a  small  table  on  the  terrace  before 
the  open  casements  of  our  room.    There  is  moonlight, 
but  I  piece  it  out  with  a  single  candle  whose  flame 


88  The  Spell  of  Italy 

the  night  wind  blows  back  and  forth  with  disconcert- 
ing frequency. 

We  have  spent  hours  in  the  balcony  of  Madame's 
parlour  since  sunset,  first  watching  the  small  white 
sails  which  all  day  have  flecked  the  blue  of  the  Gulf, 
as  they  have  flitted  around  the  farther  or  the  hither 
headlands,  or  have  been  pulled  up  on  the  gray  sands 
of  the  gray  fishing  villages,  Minori  and  Maiori,  far 
below  us.    The  sea  was  swept  and  bare. 

The  opposite  shore  faded,  the  shading  of  the  nearer 
mountains  was  lost  while  their  keen  outlines  cut  the 
sky  no  less  firmly  than  before,  and  the  cypresses 
stood  up  solemnly  beyond  the  garden  wall.  We 
watched  the  gibbous  moon  as  she  chmbed  the  sky, 
and  a  light  twinkhng  out  here  and  there  in  the  age- 
worn  villages  below.  An  evening  bell  began  ringing 
from  the  parish  church  of  Ravello,  —  San  Antonio. 
As  we  Hstened  we  found  Madame  had  joined  us. 

"This  is  Thursday  night,"  she  said;  "you  will 
like  to  see  how  the  \dllage  folk  of  Minori  and  Maiori 
light  their  lamps  to  welcome  the  coming  of  our  Lord 
in  the  blessed  Sacrament.  It  is  done  each  Thursday 
evening  of  the  year.  That  bell  is  the  first  signal. 
Now  you  will  hear  San  Pietro,"  and  she  pointed  to  a 
small  belfry  just  below  us,  from  which  a  bell  now 
began  to  sound  tumultously,  whether  in  warning  or 
in  joy  it  would  be  hard  to  say,  —  an  impetuous, 
stormy  riot  of  ringing,  instantly  followed  by  a  spring- 


Ravello  89 

ing  into  sight  all  through  Minori  of  gleaming  lan- 
terns, hung  as  one  could  see,  on  the  outer  window 
sills.  The  whole  hoary,  humble  place  was  illuminated 
at  the  call  of  its  church  bell,  to  welcome  the  symboHc 
coming  of  the  Lord  Jesus.  Five  minutes  passed  and 
the  lights  disappeared,  one  after  another,  but  then 
rang  out  the  deeper,  more  distant  bells,  of  Maiori, 
and  again  the  response  of  the  lights  leaping  into 
sudden  brillancy,  swinging,  darting  from  house  to 
house  hke  jewels  tossed  from  hand  to  hand.  It 
was  strangely  touching.  The  simphcity,  the  con- 
stancy, the  poetry  of  a  people  who  from  generation 
to  generation  can  sustain  a  ritual  so  imaginative,  so 
impersonal  in  this  hard-headed,  practical  age  of  ours, 
made  us  glad  that  all  Italians  do  not  come  over  to 
us  to  be  Americanized. 

Naples,  May  23. 
Two  days  ago  we  broke  our  own  hearts  by  leaving 

Pensione  Palumbo  and  its  mistress.    We  took  up  our 

it 

carriages,  as  Saint  Paul  used  to,  and  drove  on  again 
still  ever  southward  along  the  borders  of  the  Gulf, 
through  Minori  and  Maiori,  which  it  seemed  most 
curious  to  see  at  close  range,  having  so  long  looked 
down  upon  them  from  our  far  height. 

Filia  refused  to  remember  Lot's  wife,  and  up 
to  the  last  moment  when  we  rounded  Capo  d'Orso, 
and  lost  sight  of  them,  she  looked  back  perpetually  at 


90  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Monte  Cerreto  and  Ravello.  But  the  scenery,  as  we 
drove  on  to  Salerno,  was  so  commanding  in  its 
rugged  sternness,  so  engaging  in  the  prodigal  pro- 
fusion of  its  lemon  and  orange  groves,  that  at  last 
she  consented  to  look  before  not  after.  If  we 
had  not  already  driven  from  Sorrento  to  Amalfi  and 
sojourned  at  Ravello  we  should  have  been  ecstatic, 
but  we  were  already  accustomed,  like  spoiled  chil- 
dren, to  the  impossible  degree  of  beauty,  and  now 
took  much  for  granted  which  but  yesterday  would 
have  enthralled  us.  What  a  fiction  it  is  that  we 
mortals  ever  grow  up!  Children  we  are  and  remain 
to  the  end,  I  am  satisfied. 

We  spent  the  night  in  Salerno,  of  which  we  saw 
nothing,  and  hastened  on  yesterday  morning  to 
Paestum.  The  impressiveness  of  the  Greek  temples, 
the  temple  of  Neptune  pre-eminently,  is  overgreat 
for  my  pen.  All  I  can  say  now  at  the  close  of  a  most 
fatiguing  day  of  most  uncomfortable  travel,  is  that 
Paestum  7nust  be  seen,  cost  what  it  may  of  sheer 
endurance  of  weariness,  and  that  is  saying  much! 
The  loneliness,  the  silence,  the  antiquity,  the  awful 
serenity  which  broods  over  that  mighty  plain,  sank 
*deep  into  my  heart.  Deepest  of  all  is  the  pathos, 
unmitigated  by  any  chance  relief  of  recurrent  civi- 
lization. Palpably  the  glory  once  here  has  fled  for 
ever;  the  race  will  never  claim  again  these  sanc- 
tuaries for  yet  unknown  gods.     Dead,  dead,  dead 


Ravello  91 

they  stand  while  the  generations  rise  and  fall,  and 
civiHzations  ripen  and  decay.  And  in  their  changeless 
death  they  outlive  everything  they  see,  save  the 
purple  mountains  eastward,  and  to  the  west,  Posei- 
don, whom  they  celebrated,  —  in  his  eternal  change. 
As  for  the  roses  of  Paestum  —  !  Paestum  was 
the  only  place  in  Italy  thus  far  where  we  have  seen 
none.  Still  I  choose  to  beheve  that  this  was  their 
European  birthplace  and  seed-bed.  I  hke  Cranch's 
lines: 

"  The  deity  is  fled 
Long  since,  but  in  his  stead, 
The  smiling  sea  is  seen. 
The  Doric  shafts  between  ; 
And  round  the  time-worn  base 
Climb  vines  of  tender  grace, 
And  Paestum's  roses  still 
The  air  with  fragrance  fill." 

To-morrow  — Rome!      We    must    gird    on    our 
armour,  if  we  have  any. 


VII 

THE    WINE    OF  ROME 

\E  have  laid  siege  to  the  walls  of  Rome, 
but  they  have  not  fallen.  For  us,  alas, 
there  is  no  Venti  Settembre.  We  have 
entered  the  gates  and  stormed  the  hills, 
every  one  of  the  seven;  we  have  seen  the  Coli- 
seum by  moonhght,  and  the  Forum  by  daylight; 
we  have  been  to  the  Vatican  and  the  Capitol;  we 
have  hung  over  Rome  from  the  Janiculum  and  the 
Pincian,  but  the  citadel  remains  untaken;  Rome  has 
not  yielded  to  us.  Will  it  ever?  Perhaps  if  you  were 
here  you  could  '  explain  '  even  Rome.  Paris  and 
London  are  child's  play  to  it." 

The  above  I  read  in  a  letter  addressed  by  Fiha  to 
her  Greek  instructor,  the  correspondence,  according 
to  the  articles  of  agreement,  being  open  to  my  perusal. 
Signor  Aztalos  had  written  from  Paris  and  later 
from  St.  Petersburg. 

I  laid  the  letter  down  and  took  up  again  the  first 
volume  of  Hare's  "  Walks  in  Rome."  I  began  for 
the  third  time  an  attack  on  Chapter  V.    We  had  been 

92 


The  Wine  of  Rome  93 

in  Rome  five  days;  surely  we  ought  to  have  advanced 
thus  far. 

"  The  Velabrum  and  the  Ghetto,"  I  read,  "  Saint 
Teodoro  —  S.  Anastasia  —  Circus  Maximus  —  S. 
Giorgio  in  Velabro  —  Arch  of  Septimius  Severus  — 
Arch  of  Janus  —  Cloaca  Maxima  —  Santa  Maria  in 
Cosmedin  —  " 

With  a  groan  I  dropped  the  book.  "  That  is  one 
quarter  of  the  contents  of  Chapter  V.  There  are 
twenty  chapters  in  all.    A  labyrinth  without  a  clue." 

"  Roma  la  terribile!  It  is  much  harder  than  cal- 
culus, isn't  it,  mother?  Or  the  Critique  of  Pure 
Reason  or  the  Origin  of  Species?  " 

Thus  Fiha  with  obvious  dejection. 

"  Let's  give  up  trying  to  master  Rome,"  she  re- 
sumed after  a  moment  of  thinking,  "  and  frankly 
admit  that  it  is  out  of  our  class.  We  can't  grasp  it 
in  two  weeks,  no  matter  how  hard  we  work.  It  is 
impossible.  Why  are  we  weighed  upon  with  heaviness 
and  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress  in  the 
vain  attempt?  Let's  go  to  a  show  or  take  ices  at 
Faraglia's  or  buy  some  Roman  sashes." 

"  Or  drive  once  more  on  the  Pincian,"  I  inter- 
posed. "  No,  Filia,  what  we  need  is  some  one  Mke 
our  friend,  il  Greco,  to  '  explain  '  Rome,  —  to  co- 
ordinate it  for  us.  Did  I  not  foretell  that  the  appeal 
here  would  be  to  the  intellect?  Mine,  if  I  ever  had 
one,  seems  lost  or  mislaid." 


94  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  Why  does  no  one  write  a  Primer  of  Rome  for 
the  average  traveller,  in  words  of  one  syllable?  "  re- 
turned Filia  impatiently;  "  '  Easy  Steps  for  Little 
Feet '  is  what  we  chiefly  need.  But  I  have  a  bright 
idea,  mother;  Usten!  We  have  lost  sight  of  our  in- 
troduction to  that  friend  of  Narcissus,  the  Contessa 
Carletti.  Why  not  give  up  this  afternoon  to  a  visit 
to  her?  A  nice,  real,  new  Roman  person  would  be 
a  rest  after  so  many  ruins,  and  so  many  travelled 
tabbies  here  in  the  pensione.  I  wonder  what  has 
become  of  the  letter  of  introduction." 

"  I  can  lay  my  hand  upon  it,"  I  rephed  with  some 
pride  in  my  orderly  disposition  of  my  belongings. 
"  Here  it  is;  '  Contessa  Cecilia  Carletti,  Via  Aracoeli, 
Introducing,'  etc.    Let  us  dress  and  go," 

An  hour  later  we  found  ourselves  in  a  drawing- 
room  of  impressive  proportions  in  the  former  palazzo 
of  a  once  famous  Cardinal.  The  silence,  the  shade, 
the  spacious  stateliness,  were  soothing  to  our  vexed 
spirits.  There  was  noticeably  less  furniture  and  less 
bric-a-brac  in  the  room  than  we  should  have  found 
in  the  drawing-room  of  an  American  "  palace,"  but 
each  piece  of  furniture,  each  jar  or  vase  was  of  dis- 
tinguished excellence;  and  the  few  paintings  on  the 
walls  possessed  compelling  interest. 

Down  the  long  room  to  receive  us,  after  brief 
waiting,  came  a  woman  of  forty  or  so,  slender  and 
girhsh  in  figure,  dressed  in  a  simple  gown  of  gray 


The  Wine  of  Rome  95 

silk  with  a  fall  of  fine  lace  about  the  neck;  her  hair, 
pale  brown,  was  parted  smoothly  and  brushed  over 
her  ears;  her  colour  was  dehcate,  her  face  finely  sen- 
sitive. Her  utter  fitness  to  her  environment  declared 
itself  at  once.  Filia's  imagination  from  the  first 
moment,  and  presently  her  heart,  was  taken  captive 
by  the  lady's  manner.  Nothing  could  have  been 
gentler,  more  cordial,  than  the  welcome  given  us,  but 
a  shyness,  a  gravity,  a  delicate  distinction,  inter- 
fused with  sweetness,  gave  to  every  word  and  motion 
of  the  Contessa  Carletti  a  singular  charm.  Al- 
though American  by  birth  she  had  lived  her  Hfe 
in  Italy  and  spoke  English  with  a  slightly  foreign 
accent.  She  mentioned  Signor  Aztalos  with  cordiality, 
hoping  he  would  come  to  Rome  ere  long,  then  asked 
us  of  ourselves  and  of  our  journeyings.  While 
tea  was  being  served  the  inglorious  fact  that  we 
found  Rome  "  impossible  "  was  inadvertently  be- 
trayed. 

"  It  is  not  easy,"  the  Contessa  said  with  simphcity 
and  seriousness.  "  I  have  hved  here  quite  twenty 
years  and  yet  I  do  not  know  Rome.  I  think  many 
tourists  fancy  they  do  when  they  can  cross  off  in 
their  guide-books  the  principal  '  sights,'  but  I  like 
better  those  who  confess  as  you  do  that  they  cannot 
grasp  it.  Then  there  is  still  another  sort.  An  Ameri- 
can woman,  whom  I  took  to  drive  on  the  Pincian 
once,  while  we  stopped  for  that  wonderful  view  of 


96  The  Spell  of  Italy 

the  whole  city  one  gets  there,  asked  me, '  What  was 
it  that  happened  in  Rome  anyway?  '  " 

We  all  laughed  cheerfully  at  this,  and  Filia  con- 
tributed the  incident  of  the  American  girl  who  after 
a  European  tour  thought  she  must  have  been  in 
Rome,  because  she  seemed  to  remember  buying 
striped  silk  stockings  there. 

"  The  trouble  is,"  Filia  continued,  "  that  there 
is  so  much  of  everything  and  it  is  all  such  a  jumble, 
to  use  very  homely  American.  The  Popes  and  the 
Gods,  Emperors  and  Cardinals,  Despots  and  Sen- 
ators, Vestals  and  Martyrs,  Basihcas  and  Ther- 
mae —  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  our  hostess  smiling;  "  it  is 
certainly  an  appalling  congeries.  Have  you  tried 
the  pigeon-hole  process?  " 

We  thought  not.    It  did  not  sound  familiar. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  scorn  it  as  too  elementary. 
It  is  farthest  from  philosophical." 

Ardently  we  disclaimed  the  possibiUty  of  sitting 
in  the  seat  of  the  scornful.  The  rigours  of  Rome  after 
the  draughts  of  Lotos-Wine  in  Southern  Italy  we 
felt  had  reduced  us  to  the  lowest  orders  of  Ufe.  The 
pigeon-hole  process  would  doubtless  be  far  beyond 
us,  but  we  were  eager  for  it. 

With  diffidence  the  Contessa  declared  her  inability 
to  give  us  any  smallest  knowledge  or  learning  beyond 
our  own  illustrious  resources.     Naturally,  we  knew 


The  Wine  of  Rome  97 

the  whole  history  of  Rome  and  Italy.  Assenting  with 
irony,  again  we  disclaimed. 

"  We  passed  our  examinations  on  it  once,  you 
know,  and  then  promptly  dismissed  it  from  our 
minds,"  I  said,  Filia  echoing  me.  "  I  supposed  it 
would  come  back  in  neatly  ordered  mental  diagrams 
when  we  were  '  on  the  spot,'  but  it  does  not.  An 
inchoate  mass  of  things,  half  forgotten  and  half  re- 
membered, weighs  almost  hke  a  cloud  upon  my  mind 
to  tease  and  torture  me." 

"  I  understand  the  sensation  perfectly,"  said  our 
new  friend.  "  It  was  to  ease  my  own  mind  of  that 
very  weight  that  I  long  ago  arranged  these  little 
lockers,  these  pigeon-holes,  as  I  call  them,  for  Italy. 
For  Rome  I  accomphsh  the  same  effect  by  building 
a  wall  in  course  upon  course." 

"  Oh,  do  show  us  how  you  do  it,  both  the  carpentry 
and  the  masonry,"  pleaded  Filia.  "  First  Italy, 
then  Rome." 

"  If  you  are  sure  it  will  not  bore  you,  very  weU, 
then,"  repHed  the  Contessa,  and  settled  herself  to  the 
task  with  a  charming  httle  school-mistress  air.  "  I 
do  not  aim  to  be  logical,  and  only  occasionally 
chronological.  My  first  pigeon-hole  for  Italy  is  the 
Primitive  and  Prehistoric,  —  Italy  of  the  Tribes  I 
call  it.  We  can  go  no  farther  back,  and  it  underhes 
everything  here.  The  Sabines,  the  Umbrians,  the 
Latins,  and  the  Etruscans  were  the  controlling  factors 


98  The  Spell  of  Italy 

and  have  left  lasting  traces.  Wonderfully  interesting 
remains  of  the  Etruscan  civilization,  which  was  ad- 
vanced and  powerful,  and  for  a  century  dominated 
Rome  even,  can  be  seen  here  and  better  yet  in 
Perugia,  also  in  Arezzo  and  Cortona  and  others  of  the 
famous  twelve  confederated  cities  of  Etruria.  These 
were  at  their  height  of  prosperity  about  six  cen- 
turies before  Christ,  presumably.  The  mysterious 
and  baffling  Etruscans  can  always  be  relegated  to 
Tribal  Italy,  which  is  a  relief,"  and  the  Contessa 
laughed  lightly.  "  Ancient  Latium,  south  of  Etruria, 
produced,  in  course  of  centuries  —  Rome. 

"  But  even  in  Primitive  Italy  we  find  the  Greeks 
settHng  and  leaving  their  stamp  everywhere,"  she 
continued,  "  especially  in  Sicily  and  the  South,  as 
you  saw  in  Paestum.  One  has  to  take  the  Greeks  for 
granted,  from  Classic  times  down  to  the  present,  but 
fortunately  they  bring  gifts,  glory,  and  joy  with 
them,"  she  added  with  a  whimsical  smile  in  Filia's 
direction. 

"  Now  for  my  second  little  locker:  it  is  Roman 
Italy.  By  this  I  mean  the  very  familiar  historical 
fact  that  from  Julius  Caesar  to  the  fall  of  the  Empire 
of  the  West  in  476  a.d,  Italy  was  united  under  the 
rule  of  Rome,  which  gradually  rose  to  supreme  and 
imperial  power.  Italy  was  never  united  under  native 
rule  again,  until  the  day  when  Vittorio  Emanuele 
was  declared  our  king. 


The  Wine  of  Rome  99 

"  So  then  we  come  to  our  third  pigeon-hole  for 
bella  Italia,  prefigured  by  the  peaceful  colonizing  of 
the  Greeks,  our  charming  neighbours.  And  this  is: 
the  Italy  of  Foreign  Invasion  and  Conquest.  It 
dates  in  a  general  way  from  the  Teutonic  Odoacer 
and  Theodoric,  who  made  Ravenna  their  capital 
about  476,  and  the  great  Lombard  invasion  a  century 
later,  and  continues  down  to  the  Teutonic  Francis 
Joseph  in  1859." 

"  And  to  the  Invasion  of  Forestieri  nowadays," 
laughed  Fiha. 

"  Were  the  Lombards  not  Itahans?  "  I  asked  sur- 
prised. "  I  never  reahzed  that  they  invaded  Italy 
as  foreigners." 

"  Yes.  They  were  Germanic  also.  They  have 
blended  in  time  with  the  conquered  race." 

"What  a  procession  of  conquerors!" 

"  Yes,  a  mighty  and  a  terrible  one,  for  despite  the 
fact  that  Italy  is  '  the  whole  world's  treasury,'  and 
'  this  earth's  darling,'  as  Mrs.  Browning  said,  it  has 
been  from  time  immemorial  the  prey  of  all  the  rapa- 
cious robbers  of  Europe;  and  sometimes  the  shuttle- 
cock, batted  back  and  forth  from  one  player  of  the 
game  of  politics  to  another." 

"  I  have  seen  Tedeschi  in  Italy  sometimes,"  com- 
mented Filia,  "  who  reminded  me  of  their  ancestors, 
the  Goths  and  Visigoths.  Such  formidable  Teutons 
were  at  the  Cocumella  in  Sorrento;   they  ate  with 


100  The  Spell  of  Italy 

their  knives  just  as  they  did  when  Tacitus  saw  them 
in  their  forests." 

"  They  are  alarming,"  said  the  Contessa  quietly, 
"  and  they  always  have  the  air  of  considering  Italy 
theirs  by  right  divine." 

"  But  continue,  will  you  not?  "  I  begged,  "  with 
our  pigeon-hole  number  three." 

"  Yes;  the  various  German  races  were  by  no  means 
the  only  aliens  who  usurped  power  in  Italy.  There 
was  the  Byzantine  despotism  up  to  the  eighth  cen- 
tury; then  the  Frankish  Emperors,  —  Charlemagne 
crowned  at  Rome  you  know;  Robert  Guiscard,  the 
Norman,  in  Sicily;  the  Saracens  all  through  the 
South;  then  Spain  for  over-lord  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, and  so  on,  —  every  Bourbon  and  Barbarossa 
taking  his  turn,  —  until  about  seventeen  hundred, 
when  Austria  established  her  long  tyranny,  lasting 
until  our  struggle  for  independence  fifty  years  ago. 
To-day,  at  last,  Italy  is  one  and  free,  and  the  King 
of  Italy  is  an  Itahan,  thank  God!  " 

The  Contessa's  voice  had  a  perceptible  thrill  in  it 
as  she  spoke  the  last  words,  and  I  noticed  the  deUcate 
colour  deepen  in  her  cheeks.  Mr,  Aztalos  had  spoken 
of  her  as  "  impassioned."  I  began  to  understand; 
I  had  recalled  his  adjective  on  first  meeting  her,  and 
thought  it  an  inappropriate  characterization  for  this 
quiet,  undemonstrative  woman. 

"  Of  course  there  are  numberless  episodes.    There 


The  Wine  of  Rome  101 

was  the  Napoleon  episode  early  in  the  last  century," 
she  proceeded,  "  with  all  its  theatrical  accessories 
such  as  the  Iron  Crown  of  Lombardy  used  as  a  stage 
property  in  Bonaparte's  coronation  as  King  of  Italy 
at  Milan,  after  the  style  of  Charlemagne.  Napoleon's 
rule  was  a  fleeting  show,  but  it  had  a  remarkable  in- 
fluence in  creating  a  national  spirit  here  among 
Italians.  But  you  see  the  third  compartment,  — 
and  into  it  you  can  cram  such  a  lot  of  unrelated 
events  and  get  rid  of  them,  —  the  controlling  factor 
of  a  succession  of  foreign  Invaders  and  Conquerors." 

"  It  covers  a  multitude  of  sinners  from  Charle- 
magne to  Napoleon,"  I  acquiesced,  "  as  well  as  a 
multitude  of  complexities  in  terminology  and  allu- 
sion; furthermore  it  re-creates  the  story  of  New 
Italy  which  has  been  briefly  given  to  us.  But  I 
failed  to  grasp  before  how  magnificent  an  achieve- 
ment it  has  been  to  drive  out  the  Austrians.  The 
air  of  Rome  seems  clearing,  but  I  am  eager  to  look 
into  the  next  pigeon-hole.  These  categories  I  under- 
stand are  simply  for  Italy  in  general?  " 

"  Precisely.  Not  at  all  for  Rome  in  particular. 
That  comes  later.  We  skip  back  again  now,  for  the 
fourth  covers  the  extraordinary  Rise  of  the  Com- 
munes throughout  Italy  early  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, which  gave  each  city  new  civic  consciousness 
and  pride  of  independence  and  led  to  the  Wars  of 
the  Towns,  so  marked  a  feature,  you  will   find  in 


102  The  Spell  of  Italy 

the  story  of  each  city  you  visit.  The  situation  gave 
rise  to  the  Condottiere;  to  the  pohtical  terms  Guelf 
and  Ghibelline  (that  is,  Papal  and  Imperial  parti- 
sans); and  later  to  the  offices  of  Prior,  Podesta  and 
Gonfalonier.  For  in  the  end  the  Repubhcs  of  Venice, 
Florence,  Genoa,  etc.,  issued  forth,  had  their  day,  and 
Were  merged,  sooner  or  later,  into  the  holdings  of 
some  foreign  prince." 

"  This  sounds  so  easy,"  sighed  Filia,  "  but  when 
I  try  to  read  Italian  history  I  feel  as  if  I  should  pres- 
ently go  mad,  it  is  so  intricate.  All  the  people  who 
write  books  on  Italy  take  it  for  granted  one  knows 
everything  already." 

"  Italian  history  is  excessively  intricate,"  said  the 
Contessa,  "  and  that  is  why,  when  one  is  on  the  wing 
as  you  are,  it  is  worth  while  to  have  a  few  ganglia, 
so  to  speak,  about  which  to  gather  clusters  of  cir- 
cumstances and  events.  I  have  only  one  more  to 
name.  It  is  the  Rise  of  the  Despots  which  came  as 
a  counterpoise  to  the  growth  of  the  Free  Cities.  In 
the  thirteenth  century  we  begin  to  find  in  each  com- 
munity some  powerful  nobleman  who  lords  it  over 
all  classes  and  creates  a  dynasty  in  his  family; 
such  are  the  Scaligeri  of  Verona,  —  Dante  took 
shelter  under  their  wing,  you  know,  —  the  Visconti  in 
Milan,  the  Maletestae  at  Parma,  the  house  of  D'Este 
at  Ferrara,  —  Tasso's  protectors  later,  you  remember, 
—  the  Medici  in  Florence,  and  many  more.    In  Peru- 


The  Wine  of  Rome  103 

gia  you  will  observe  constant  reminders  of  the 
Baglioni,  in  Siena  it  was  the  Petrucci.  Everywhere 
you  will  find  memorials  of  the  Despots  in  tombs  and 
palaces  and  churches.  Usually  they  have  been  mag- 
nificent patrons  of  art  and  letters.  Ecco,  Signora, 
Signorina!  That  is  all.  I  have  told  you  nothing  you 
did  not  know  before;  I  have  merely  suggested  a 
mechanical  device  for  keeping  one's  mind  in  order 
as  one  keeps  her  writing  desk.  You  have  to  make 
up  your  mind  to  throw  away  a  lot  of  old  rubbish  and 
keep  only  what  is  most  important.  Especially  when 
you  are  travelling." 

Filia  gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief. 

*'  This  is  what  I  have  been  fairly  praying  for,"  she 
cried.  "  My  mother  will  bear  me  witness.  Please  let 
me  say  it  over:  First,  the  Primitive,  Tribal  Italy,  the 
Italy  of  the  Latins,  Umbrians,  Etruscans  —  "  And 
here  FiHa  interrupted  herself  laughing,  "  I  remem- 
ber this  minute  that  I  heard  an  awfully  pretty 
English  girl  at  our  pensione  ask  yesterday  in  such  a 
bewildered,  weary  way,  *  Where  is  Etruscany,  any- 
way? '  I  didn't  know  any  better  than  she  did  that 
the  Etruscans  were  of  Etruria  and  pre-historic. 
Perhaps  I  learned  it  when  I  studied  Roman  history. 
I  am  sure  I  don't  remember  a  word  about  it.  So 
then —  Second,  Roman  Italy;  Tliird,  Foreign  In- 
vaders and  Conquerors  of  Italy,  chiefly  Teutonic,  but 
also  Saracen,  Norman,  Prankish,  Spanish,  —  right  on 


104  The  Spell  of  Italy 

steadily  from  the  Ostrogoths  to  the  Austrians,  — 
accounting  for  nearly  everything.  Fourth,  the  Rise 
of  the  Free  Cities  developing  into  Republics.  Fifth, 
the  Rise  of  the  local  Despots." 

Filia  counted  the  several  topics  off  on  her  fingers 
with  an  air  of  triumph.  She  now  stretched  out  her 
hand  to  our  hostess  with  an  Oliver-Twisted  expres- 
sion and  added, 

"  And  now,  dear  lady,  please  may  we  build  the 
wall  of  Rome?  " 

The  Contessa  had  risen;  a  nurse  in  the  picturesque 
garb  of  a  Roman  contadina  had  entered  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  unperceived  by  Filia,  leading  a 
charming,  fair-haired  child  of  two  or  three  years. 
The  Contessa  bent  and  caught  Filia's  outstretched 
hand,  holding  it  between  her  own  with  an  impulsive 
caress. 

"  A  httle  later,  cara  Signorina,"  she  said,  then 
spoke  rapidly  to  the  nurse  in  Italian  and  called  to 
the  child,  "  Gigi,  Gigi,  veni  qua  alia  Mamma." 

He  ran  to  her  with  outstretched  arms  and  she 
lifted  him,  covering  his  face  with  kisses.  Turning  to 
us  then  with  an  arch  and  radiant  smile  she 
cried, 

"  The  child  of  my  old  age!  Is  he  not  adorable?  " 
As  she  spoke  the  Contessa  looked  not  a  day  older 
than  Filia.  "  I  have  four  others,  dear  ladies,  all 
equally  delightful.    I  hope  to  have  them  see  you,  but 


The  Wine  of  Rome  105 

alas,  they  speak  very  dreadful  English.  I  am  much 
to  blame." 

Putting  down  the  child,  who  had  the  angehc  gravity 
of  a  Raphael  bambino,  she  went  on  speaking. 

"Now  this  is  what  I  propose:  I  have  ordered 
the  motor-car.  Will  you  drive  with  me  and  Gigi  to 
the  Protestant  Cemetery,  —  just  a  Httle  drive?  I 
will  leave  you  afterwards  at  your  pensione.  To- 
morrow if  you  are  not  engaged  may  we  not  meet  in 
the  afternoon  in  the  Borghese  gardens  and  have  a 
picnic?  Then  we  can  talk  of  many  things,  Signorina. 
But  Rome  is  most  wearing  and  growing  so  warm 
already;  and  I  wish  to  give  you  a  bit  of  advice: 
Do  not  take  it  so  seriously.  You  have  already  seen 
nearly  all  the  indoor  things  you  need  to  see  in  a  two 
weeks'  visit,  —  all  the  sculpture,  except  in  the  Ther- 
mae. Abandon  the  idea  of  hunting  down  every 
isolated  picture  or  statue  or  broken  bit  of  masonry 
which  has  been  called  famous.  There  is  httle  gain. 
Italians  never  do  that  sort  of  thing,  and  the  American 
ardour  in  the  pursuit  of  detached  examples  of  this 
and  that  master  amuses  them.  To  be  sure  they  have 
these  things  always  within  reach,  but  what  is  that 
if  they  do  not  reach  them?  About  churches,  —  you 
have  visited  the  Sistine  Chapel?  " 

"  Yes,  twice  over;  it  is  the  only  church  thus  far 
we  care  for." 

"  What  of  Saint  Peter's?  " 


106  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  The  dome  is  glorious,  but  for  the  interior  I  think 
what  Shelley  said  is  perfectly  true,"  said  Fiha  boldly. 
"  It '  exhibits  littleness  on  a  large  scale.'  To  me  it  is 
not  impressive." 

"  Nor  to  me,"  said  the  Contessa  with  evident 
approval.  "  None  of  the  churches  in  Rome,  and  their 
number  is  legion,  seem  to  me  beautiful,  in  spite  of 
the  glowing  description  of  them  you  read  in  '  John 
Inglesant.'  But  then  you  know  Shorthouse  had  the 
advantage  of  never  having  seen  them!  I  should  go, 
if  I  were  you,  to  the  Lateran  once  for  Vespers,  and 
you  will  like  to  run  into  Trinita  dei  Monti  at  sunset 
to  hear  the  nuns  chant;  it  is  very  near  your  pensione 
there  in  the  Via  Sistina.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
Saint  Peter's  within  is  vulgar  and  pompous  I  think 
you  would  be  interested  in  the  service  there  on 
Thursday.  The  thirtieth  is  Corpus  Christi  Day  and 
there  will  be  something  of  an  ecclesiastical  pageant. 
Do  you  care  to  see  the  Pope?  " 

Fiha  gave  no  uncertain  sound  in  the  affirmative. 

"  I  think  I  can  manage  the  presentation  for  you, 
but  one  has  to  wait.  It  will  not  come  until  late 
next  week  even  if  I  apply  at  once.  I  will  also  get 
permission,  if  you  hke,  for  you  to  sec  the  Borgia 
Rooms  of  the  Vatican." 

"  Oh,  the  Pinturicchio  frescoes!  "  I  exclaimed.  "  I 
have  so  wanted  access  to  them  but  the  guide-book 
made  it  seem  very  difficult.    There  is  really  no  end 


POPE    INNOCENT    X,    BY    VELASQUEZ. 


The  Wine  of  Rome  107 

to  the  collections  of  paintings  we  must  visit,"  I 
added.  A  note  of  discouragement  in  my  voice  must 
have  struck  the  Contessa. 

"  Dear  Signora,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  there  are 
really  very  few  pictures  of  the  first  order  in  Rome, 
aside  from  the  frescoes  you  have  seen.  You  will  see 
greater  things  by  nearly  every  master  in  Florence 
and  Venice.  Let  them  all  go.  There  is  just  one  ex- 
ception; you  would  find  it  worth  while  to  go  to  the 
Doria  Gallery  in  the  Corso  for  the  sake  especially  of 
the  Velasquez  Pope,  —  Innocent  Tenth,  the  most 
interesting  portrait  in  Rome,  I  think.  Having  seen 
Guido  Reni's  St.  Michael  in  the  Cappuccini  church 
you  will  be  interested  in  the  resemblance  between  the 
authentic  features  of  the  Pope  and  Guido's  fiend. 
It  was  probably  a  spite  portrait.  Tliis  by  the  way. 
What  I  wish  to  say  is  that  after  the  Doria  you  will 
have  seen  pictures  enough  for  Rome." 

We  were  amazed.    I  was  first  to  express  my  surprise. 

"  You  do  not  think  we  would  regret  omitting 
the  Borghese  and  the  Corsini,  the  Rospigliosi,  the 
Barberini,  and  all  the  other  collections  we  have  heard 
so  much  about?  " 

The  Contessa  laughed. 

"  I  am  quite  confident  that  you  would  not.  Rome 
itself  is  so  much  more  important  than  these  scraps 
of  colour  dotted  here  and  there.  When  you  are  here 
for  a  winter  sometime,  why,  go  to  everything  you 


108  The  Spell  of  Italy 

like.  I  want  you  to  do  the  outdoor  things;  the  Bor- 
ghese  Gardens  are  far  more  charming  than  the  Gal- 
lery. Drive  in  the  Campagna;  go  to  Frascati  and  to 
Tivoli  and  to  Albano.  Rome  will  have  new  signifi- 
cance on  the  return  through  the  Campagna.  I  am 
sure  my  advice  is  good." 

"  So  am  I! "  cried  Fiha.  "  What  a  relief  to  cut 
out  so  many  pages  of  Baedeker." 

"  I  believe  Hare's  Walks  were  gradually  under- 
niining  my  constitution,"  I  said  and  we  all  laughed 
together. 

"  I  noticed  you  looked  pale  and  harassed  when 
you  came  in,"  the  Contessa  remarked  as  she  left 
the  room  to  prepare  for  going  out.  "  From  this  time 
on  I  insist  upon  your  enjoying  Rome." 

We  drove  first  through  the  Porta  San  Paolo  to  the 
church  of  San  Paolo  Fuori,  where  the  mosaics  in- 
terested me  greatly  and  the  beautiful  cloisters  even 
more.  In  passing  we  studied  the  strangely  impressive 
pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius  with  piercing  interest  in 
the  thought  that  Saint  Paul's  eyes  must  have  rested 
upon  it  when  he  was  led  out  here  beyond  the  city 
walls  to  execution.  Presently  we  came  into  the 
shadow  of  tall  cypresses  and  entered  thi'ough  a 
stone  portal  the  quiet  aisles  of  the  Protestant  Ceme- 
tery. We  made  no  effort  to  speak  of  what  we  found 
or  to  search  out  one  or  another  of  the  graves  of  the 
great  and  greatly  beloved.    The  spirit  of  the  place,  — 


M 

B^KS.  i^A   V^^to 

^^^H^^^^P^  ^v^|9^[^|||r              ^^    ai^l^^^^^^^^H 

^^^&^HHk                ^'"^^^^^^^VfiBW^^^^^I^^H 

g^\k^.(:    _J|^^| 

^^^m^ 

^HHP!v^  J^l^ji^^v  ^^b9k^'     ^^^^^^H^^hI^''          <^^^h 

^^^^■■^^^^^^^^^■k   ^^^^^^^^Hk    f  ^H^^^Hfl^BflB^Hl^^^^^H^^^^I 

li^^HH^^^HUi^i^^^'--                 ^^^H 

ST.    MICHAEL,    BY    GUIDO    RENI. 


The  Wine  of  Rome  109 

pensive,  not  oppressive,  —  silences  eager  speech  and 
movement.  I  noted  Filia  bending  long  over  the 
stone  which  marks  the  spot  where  the  ashes  of 
Shelley  are  buried.  He  himself  wrote  of  this  place  in 
Adonais  as  — 

"  a  slope  of  green  access, 
Where,  like  an  infant  smile,  over  the  dust, 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread." 

And  did  he  not  once  say  it  might  make  one  in 
love  with  death  to  think  that  one  should  be  buried 
in  so  sweet  a  place?    And  here  hes  the  heart  of  him: 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Cor  Cordium 

Natus  IV  Aug  MDCCXCII 

Obiit  VIII  Jul  MDCCCXXII 

"  Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea  change 

Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

My  thoughts  turned  to  that  scene  on  the  desolate 
shore  between  the  Apennines  and  the  Gulf  of  Lerici  at 
Viareggio,  the  leaping  flames  of  the  funeral  pyre,  and 
the  hand  of  the  friend  stretched  into  them  to  snatch 
the  imperishable  heart.  FiUa's  eyes  met  mine  above 
that  grave,  but  between  us  was  a  mist  of  tears. 

Unexpectedly  I  came  upon  the  stone  of  John  Ad- 
dington  Symonds.  I  had  forgotten  that  he  was 
buried  in  Rome.  He,  of  all  Englishmen,  seems  to 
me  to  have  discerned  Italy  most  subtly,  profoundly, 


110  The  Spell  of  Italy 

gravely,  yet  with  passionate  sympathy.  Under  these 
cypress-trees  is  his  fitting  resting-place.  His  epitaph 
I  stood  to  copy  on  a  leaf  of  my  address  book :  — 

"  Lead  thou  me  God,  Law,  Reason,  Motion,  Life,  — 
All  names  for  thee  alike  are  vain  and  hollow. 
Lead  me,  for  I  will  follow  without  strife, 
Or,  if  I  strive,  still  must  I  blindly  follow." 

Yet  I  liked  better  just  there  to  remember  his 
own  translation  of  the  Hnes  of  Campanelle: 

"  Can  it  then  be  that  boundless  Power,  Love,  Mind, 
Let  others  reign,  the  while  He  takes  repose  ? 
Hath  He  grown  old,  or  hath  He  ceased  to  heed? 
Nay,  one  God  made  and  rules  :  He  shall  unwind 
The  tangled  skein  ;  the  hidden  law  disclose." 

Broken  echoes  of  words  of  Symonds'  concerning 
Posilipo  ("rest  from  grief")  came  back  to  me: 
"  Here  we  may  lay  down  the  burden  of  our  cares, 
gaining  tranquillity  by  no  mysterious  lustral  rights, 
no  penitential  prayers,  or  offering  of  holocausts,  but 
by  the  influence  of  beauty  in  the  earth  and  air." 
Beautiful  and  solemn  was  the  place,  the  grass,  thick 
starred  with  wild  flowers,  the  long  rays  of  the  set- 
ting sun  sifting  through  the  tall  Gothic  trees;  the 
birds  singing  softly.  Here  they  lie  without  the  wall, 
those  who,  not  being  of  Rome  have  yet  loved  her, 
or  who  have  sunk  down  beside  her,  tasting  her  wine 
at  the  cup's  brim,  not  drinking  deep. 


The  Wine  of  Rome  HI 

On  the  homeward  way  we  drove  to  San  Pietro  in 
Montorio   and   from   the   beautiful   Villa   PamphiH- 
Doria  looked  down  upon  Rome.    We  had  viewed  the 
city  on  our  first  coming,  from  the  Janiculum  Hill,  but 
in  the  shrill  morning  light;  now  it  lay  steeped  in  crim- 
son sunset  haze,  full  of  mystery  and  enchantment. 
Again  the  figure  of  Rome  as  a  mighty  cup  struck  my 
imagination;  there  it  lay  filled  to  the  brim;  and  the 
wine  is  red.    Into  it  has  been  distilled  the  hfe  blood 
of  great  kings  and  captains,  of  holy  martyrs  and 
monstrous   imperators,    of   saints   and   sinners   and 
mighty  men  of  genius,  of  seers  and  singers  of  every 
kindred  and  nation  and  tongue.    What  does  it  matter, 
I  thought,  the  how,  and  when,  and  why?      All  is 
here  in  essence  which  belongs  to  humanity's  story, 
its  power  and  its  passion,  its  tenderness,  its  cruelty, 
its  lust  and  its  love,  its  triumph,  its  treachery,  its 
glory  and  its  shame.     Surely  it  is  a  draught  the 
costHest  and  most  potent,  I  told  myself,  and  some  it 
intoxicates,  and  some  it  kills,  and  to  some  it  is  the 
wine  of  life.    It  is  not  strange  then  that  these  first 
drops  of  it  should  make  one  giddy,  confused,  sick  at 
heart.     If  we  proved  to  be  of  those  strong  enough 
to  bear  this  heady  wine  we  shall  return  and  drink 
deeper. 
And  this  is  the  Spell  of  Rome. 


VIII 

GOSSIP   AND   A  GARDEN 

fT  four  the  following  afternoon  the  Contessa 
Carletti  called  for  us  at  our  pensione  in 
the  Via  Sistina,  and  we  walked  to  the 
eastern  entrance  of  the  Borghese  Villa 
by  the  Porta  Pinciana.  Just  before  reaching  the 
Palazzo  Margherita  we  perceived  a  little  flurry 
in  the  quiet  street,  the  Via  Veneto,  and  the  Con- 
tessa exclaimed  with  suddenly  heightened  colour, 
"  II  Re!  "  Preceded  by  a  few  mounted  outriders,  the 
royal  carriage  a  moment  later  was  driven  by.  We 
saw  seated  in  it  a  young  Italian  gentleman  with  a 
thoughtful,  also  a  rather  humourous,  expression  and 
a  very  reasonable  moustache  for  a  son  of  the  House 
of  Savoy.  Beside  him  was  a  young  lady  of  dis- 
tinguished appearance,  with  velvety,  serious,  dark 
eyes.  An  illusive  pensiveness  lurked  somewhere  in 
the  lady's  face,  I  fancied,  in  spite  of  a  gracious  smile 
with  which  she  met  the  salutations  of  the  people 
standing  at  gaze  as  the  carriage  passed. 
In  the  Contessa's  eyes  I  caught,  in  the  instant  of 

U2 


VITTORIO    EMANUELE    III. 


Gossip  and  a  Garden  113 

their  passing,  a  look  of  profound  and  ardent  homage, 
that  look  one  can  almost  never  see  in  an  American  face. 

"  What  is  the  King  Uke?  "  I  asked,  hoping  in 
my  heart  that  he  was  worthy  of  the  devotion  he 
inspired  in  tliis  sweet  woman,  so  thoroughly  Italian 
in  her  sympathies. 

"  He  is  a  cultivated  gentleman  and  as  a  husband 
irreproachable,  and  that,  considering  the  history  of 
his  house,  marks  a  fine  process  of  evolution,"  re- 
plied the  Contessa.  "  I  admire  him  sincerely  for 
many  things.  He  has  the  direct,  straightforward 
manhness  of  his  grandfather;  his  father's  simple 
tastes  and  business  abihty,  but  unHke  his  father, 
who  was  a  thoroughly  mediocre  man,  Vittorio  Eman- 
uele  III  has  much  personal  distinction  and  is  most 
conscientious  in  his  conception  of  his  office.  He  is 
in  earnest.  Umberto,  honest  man,  had  no  turn  for 
kingship ;  he  was  Piedmontese  and  provincial  through 
and  through;  much  more  at  home  with  his  horses 
and  dogs  than  with  his  ministers  always,  and  fonder 
of  Piedmont  dialect  than  of  any  Uterary  niceties. 
Nothing  could  bore  him  more  consumingly  than 
music,  art  and  letters,  or  the  paraphernaha  of  Court 
life." 

"And  he  with  that  exquisite  high-bred  Mar- 
gherita  for  his  wife!"  cried  Filia.  "We  saw  her 
the  day  after  we  came  to  Rome  and  I  thought  her 
most  queenlike." 


114  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  She  is  musical  to  a  degree,  you  know.  The  King 
never  appeared  at  her  musicales,  nor  in  fact  any- 
where in  her  company  except  on  state  occasions." 

"  Were  they  supposed  to  be  avowedly  incom- 
patible? "  I  asked.  "  I  remember  Margherita's  ex- 
cessive mourning  of  him." 

The  Contessa  smiled. 

"  The  Queen  Dowager  has  a  consistently  exalted 
conception  of  queenship.  It  was  the  Queen  who 
mourned  the  King  rather  than  the  wife  her  husband. 
In  this  bluff  way  Umberto  had  no  doubt  a  devoted 
and  sincere  affection  for  the  little  cousin  he  made  his 
wife,  as  how  could  it  be  otherwise?  There  is  not 
in  Europe  a  woman  of  greater  charm  than  our  Pearl 
of  Savoy;  but  his  affection  for  Margherita  was  no 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  his  haison  with  that  lady 
twelve  years  older  than  himself,  which  began  be- 
fore his  marriage,  and  continued  till  his  death." 

"  What  a  humiliation  for  a  proud,  womanly 
woman !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  A  woman  Uke  Margherita  was  so  obviously  be- 
yond and  above  him,  that  I  cannot  think  Umberto 
could  have  felt  at  ease  in  her  presence.  It  is  not 
supposed  that  there  was  any  relation  beyond  the 
official  between  them  after  the  birth  of  the  Prince, 
our  King.  I  think  if  you  know  their  faces  you  will 
find  the  whole  story  written  in  them,  and  a  rather 
pathetic    one   it   is   though   common   among   kings. 


QUEEN    ELENA. 


Gossip  and  a  Garden  115 

Umberto's  is  the  face  of  a  virile,  strong-fibred,  rough- 
shod soldier;  Margherita's  is  the  sensitive,  mobile 
face  of  the  idealist;  the  highly  organized  artistic 
temperament  shows  in  every  line." 

"  Queen  Elena  did  not  strike  me  as  at  all  like  her 
mother-in-law  in  that  glimpse  we  had  of  her  just 
now,"  said  Filia.  "  I  suppose  there  is  no  reason  why 
they  should  be  similar  in  taste  or  temperament," 

"  No,  oh,  no,"  replied  the  Contessa.  "  The  present 
Queen  is  of  another  race  and  has  had  her  training  at 
the  Russian  Court.  It  was  there  that  the  King  met 
and  admired  her.  She  is  hke  Margherita  in  being 
accompHshed  and  refined,  but,  as  people  sometimes 
say,  she  has  the  good  sense  not  to  imitate  the  in- 
imitable. And  still,  she  seems  to  me  more  the  flesh 
and  blood  woman,  less  the  conventional  Queen,  and 
I  love  her  for  that.  I  admit  that  her  Majesty  has 
not  the  incomparable  royal  charm,  the  marvellous 
tact  and  grace  of  the  King's  mother,  but  she  has  a 
certain  pathos  of  personality,  a  curious,  appealing 
wistfulncss  and  gentleness  all  her  own.  They  tell 
of  her  asking  pardon  of  her  husband  most  humbly 
when  their  first  child  was  born,  for  giving  the  Royal 
House  of  Italy  a  daughter,  not  a  son." 

"Poor  girl!"  cried  Filia.  "I  hope  she  and  the 
King  are  happy  in  their  marriage." 

"  Every  one  beheves  that  true  at  least,"  repUed  the 
Contessa.    '*  The  King  is  said  almost  never  to  speak 


116  The  Spell  of  Italy 

to  a  woman;  his  fidelity  gives  him  the  name  of  being 
the  first  good  husband  ever  produced  by  the  House 
of  Savoy.  Old  Vittorio  Emanuele  was  quite  too 
terrible,  you  remember.  At  first  Itahans  did  not 
fancy  Elena  very  greatly;  I  think  she  dressed  too 
simply  to  please  the  women,  and  her  great  height 
must  have  disconcerted  the  men,  they  being  usually 
of  low  stature;  but  she  has  grown  up  to  herself,  and 
is  in  fact  becoming  extremely  handsome.  She  and 
the  King  are  peculiarly  unostentatious,  and,  after 
Margherita's  prodigal  extravagance,  their  court  and 
their  customs  are  often  criticized  among  us  as  bour- 
geois, especially  as  the  King  detests  any  display  of 
court  etiquette  and  meets  all  who  come  in  straight- 
forward man-fashion,  quite  like  an  American  Presi- 
dent. He  likes  to  have  people  talk  to  him  about  what 
interests  them,  and  he  has  those  highly  trained  facul- 
ties which  enable  him  to  go  straight  to  the  root  of 
the  matter,  making  little  of  the  superfluous.  Elena 
is  of  a  decidedly  literary  and  poetic  bent.  I  do  not 
see  how  the  two  can  fail  to  interest  each  other,  and 
their  children  are  such  charming  persons.  The  oldest, 
lolande,  has  Queen  Margherita's  lovely  smile  and 
promises  to  be  a  princess  of  great  distinction.  There 
are  my  children  now,"  added  the  Contessa  with 
brightening  eyes;  "  two  of  them,  over  there  by  the 
Goethe,  with  our  little  English  maestra,  Miss  Liman. 
Do  you  see?  " 


PRINCESS    lOLANDE. 


Gossip  and  a  Garden  117 

We  had  entered  the  Borghese  Villa,  having  passed 
through  the  Porta  Pinciana  unheeding  it,  so  en- 
grossed were  we  in  our  talk.  We  now  hastened 
toward  the  statue  of  Goethe,  the  German  Emperor's 
recent  grandiose  gift  to  the  city  of  Rome.  Our  at- 
tention being  directed  to  the  little  group  of  animated 
flesh  and  blood,  we  left  the  study  of  the  marble  poet 
towering  above  to  a  more  convenient  season.  The 
piccoH  Carletti  we  found  as  charming  as  any  royal 
children,  and  our  parties  now  joined,  we  moved 
slowly  on  thi'ough  the  dusky  avenues  to  a  shallow, 
grassy  dell  where  Anna,  the  nurse,  and  the  small 
Gigi  were  awaiting  us  in  a  species  of  encampment. 
Here  the  ancient  ilex-trees  stretched  their  moss- 
grown  branches  far  and  wide  over  the  soft  turf  "  with 
daisies  pied;  "  through  long  green  vistas  glimpses  of 
gray  statues  and  old  altars  were  seen;  the  mur- 
muring sound  of  water  came  drowsily  to  our  ears 
from  the  fountain  of  the  CavalU  Marini.  We  seemed 
in  the  heart  of  an  ancient  wood,  so  dense  the  shade, 
so  enormous  the  hoary  and  venerable  trees,  so  deep 
the  stillness. 

FiUa  threw  herself  on  the  grass  at  the  foot  of  a 
gnarled  tree-trunk,  and,  with  a  cry  of  dehght,  mur- 
mured: 

"  Mephistopheles,  hither  to  me!  This  is  the  per- 
fect moment,  let  it  stay." 

"  The  shade  of  Goethe  follows  you,"  said  the  Con- 


118  The  Spell  of  Italy 

tessa,  looking  down  at  her  with  a  pleased  smile. 
"  Goethe  loved  to  compose  in  this  garden,  you  know," 
she  added.  Then  pointing  down  the  long  Viale,  she 
drew  our  eyes  to  a  passing  file  of  German  Seminarists 
in  scarlet  gowns,  a  thread  of  vivid  colour  through 
the  rich  green  gloom.  Far  down  in  the  opposite 
direction,  by  the  fountain,  a  Franciscan  monk  paced 
slowly,  breviary  in  hand,  dimly  seen,  hke  the  figure 
in  a  dream. 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  real?  "  I  asked,  my  voice 
sinking  involuntarily  almost  to  a  whisper. 

"I  am  convinced  of  it,"  said  the  Contessa  seriously, 
moving  away  to  a  nook  a  httle  apart  where  Miss 
Liman  was  busy  with  a  bubbling  samovar.  "  Ilaria 
will  give  you  your  tea,  dear  lady,  to  bring  you  back 
to  earth  again." 

With  demure  smiles  the  little  maids  of  ten  and 
twelve  handed  us  cups  of  tea,  flowery  and  fragrant, 
while  Gigi  toddled  after  with  great  importance  bear- 
ing pasta  of  enticing  forms. 

"  I  did  not  dream  of  this,"  I  cried;  "it  seems 
a  perfect  forest  fairy-tale  of  '  Tischlein-deck- 
dich.'  " 

Then,  my  eyes  meeting  those  of  the  Contessa  just 
lifted  from  her  children,  I  surprised  in  them  a  radiance 
of  noble  and  innocent  joy  which  brought  tears  to 
my  own  eyes. 

"  I  think  I  have  never  seen  a  woman  who  seemed 


Gossip  and  a  Garden  119 

as  happy  as  you,  Contessa  Carletti,"  I  said,  unable 
to  keep  back  my  thought. 

"  Ah,  but  you  have  not  seen  my  Enrico,"  she  re- 
plied naively.  "  When  you  see  him  you  shall  under- 
stand. I  have  not  seen  him  myself  since  morning," 
she  added  plaintively,  "  and  he  had  hoped  to  meet  us 
here.    He  wiU  come  in  a  httle,  I  am  sure." 

"  Contessa  Carletti,"  remarked  Fiha,  looking  up 
from  the  house  of  blocks  she  was  building  on  an  out- 
stretched rug  for  Gigi,  "  will  you  help  me  to  decide 
what  tree  shall  stand  for  Rome?  I  have  a  fancy  that 
each  city  of  Italy,  or  locality,  has  a  particular  tree 
as  its  symbol,  hke  the  musical  clef,  set  to  determine 
the  pitch  of  its  scale.  In  Naples  the  sign  was  easily 
and  strikingly  the  stone  pine;  in  Sorrento  and  all 
the  way  to  Salerno  the  orange;  here  in  Rome  I 
thought  at  first  it  must  be  the  cypress,  but  the  ilexes 
on  the  Pincian,  and  now  far  more  the  ilexes  here  —  " 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  broke  in  the  Contessa  with 
animation.  "  It  must  be  the  ilex  for  Rome.  It  is 
more  truly  typical.  You  must  reserve  the  cypress 
for  Florence." 

"  Can  the  cypresses  there  be  finer  than  these?  " 
and  I  pointed  down  the  black  line  of  the  Viale;  "  or 
than  those  in  the  Protestant  Cemetery?  " 

"  Wait  until  you  see  the  cypresses  at  Hadrian's 
villa  and  the  Villa  D'Este,"  said  the  Contessa. 
"They  are  even  more  beautiful.     But  still  the  cy- 


120  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

press  signifies  Florence.    You  will  know  when  you 
look  up  at  San  Miniato." 

"  These  gardens  would  be  decisive  to  me  for  the 
ilex/'  I  remarked.  "  Their  antiquity,  their  strength 
and  compass,  all  spell  Rome.  The  cypress  is  poetic, 
aspiring,  pensive;  the  ilex  is  sterner,  and  of  an  im- 
penetrable complexity." 

"  Very  nice;  very  true,"  echoed  the  Contessa. 
"  And  for  what  locale,  dear  little  Signorina,  will  you 
designate  the  olive-tree?  Since  it  clothes  the  whole 
peninsula  from  the  Alps  to  the  south  shore  of  Sicily? 
Oh,  but  you  will  see  most  glorious  ohves  on  the  way 
toTivoh!" 

"  Can't  we  take  the  olive  and  the  vine  for  Umbria?  " 
asked  Fiha.  "  By  eveiy  token  they  must  abound 
there." 

"Yes,  that  would  be  very  well;  and  for  Tuscany 
without  doubt  the  chestnut;  the  mountain  slopes 
there  clothe  themselves  with  magnificent  chestnut 
forests.  Then  for  the  Lake  Region,  —  oh,  how  hard 
to  choose  in  those  thickets  of  laurel  and  mulberry, 
acacia,  palm,  fig  and  sycamore,  —  in  that  wreath  of 
rose  and  wistaria  which  frames  Como!  " 

"  I  am  sure  it  should  be  laurel,"  I  asserted  con- 
fidently; "  laurel  has  the  necessary  distinction 
Laurel  suits  the  Lake  complexion  best  and  laurel 
it  shall  be.  Now  may  I  interrupt  this  most  weighty 
consideration  and  remark  humbly  that  I  had  brought 


Gossip  and  a  Garden  121 

a  book  with  me  for  our  reading,  worthy,  I  dare  to 
think,  of  the  time  and  the  place  and  the  loved  one 
altogether."  With  this  I  produced  a  bibelot  con- 
taining Andrew  Lang's  "  Letters  to  Dead  Authors," 
charmingly  bound  in  illuminated  vellum.  "  This 
letter  to  Horace  will  take  us  back  to  the  Augustan 
age;  quite  the  proper  thing." 

"  Where  did  you  find  that  noble  binding?  "  asked 
Filia,  pouncing  upon  the  little  volume  eagerly. 
"  Whom  is  it  for?  " 

"  I  shall  probably  give  it  to  Cousin  Lucretia  if  I 
find  I  can  spare  it  comfortably,"  I  replied.  "  I  found 
it  in  our  dear  Piazza  di  Spagna  while  you  were  gone 
for  letters  this  morning." 

Our  first  act  in  each  day's  programme  was  to  de- 
scend the  Spanish  Stairs  from  our  high  plane  on  the 
Via  Sistina. 

"  Oh,  yes,  in  return  for  Cousin  Lucretia's  sending 
that  desirable  artist  to  us.  We  had  a  visitor  last 
night,  Contessa  Carletti,  and  it  made  us  feel  as  though 
we  belonged  here." 

"  I  shall  be  thoroughly  jealous,"  said  the  Contessa 
with  a  Httle  moue  of  charming  protest;  ''  I  want  you 
all  to  myself.    The  time  is  so  short," 

"  How  flattering!  "  laughed  Fiha  bhthely.  "  You 
can  have  us!  Our  artist  man  —  he  is  an  American 
and  I  fear  from  Idaho  (think  of  that  in  Rome !)  — 
only  proposes  to  take  us  to  a  musicale  next  Friday 


122  The  Spell  of  Italy 

in  the  studio  of  a  famous  sculptor.  His  name  I  have 
forgotten." 

"  Ezekiel,  without  doubt.  I  was  going  to  take  you 
to  his  studio  myself,  but  this  may  be  even  better.  I 
shall  meet  you  there  and  introduce  you,  if  I  may,  to 
friends  of  mine.  You  will  enjoy  it,  I  know.  But  I 
wish  to  hear  the  Signora  read  from  the  expensive 
little  book.  Miss  Liman  will  see  that  the  children  are 
as  still  as  mice.  Ilaria,  give  me  my  knitting,  if  you 
please." 

Before  we  settled  to  attention,  however,  FiHa 
reminded  the  Contessa  of  her  promise  to  build  the 
wall  of  Rome. 

"With  Gigi's  blocks,  is  it,  Beb6? "  she 
laughed. 

"  Yes,  with  Gigi's  blocks,  if  he  will  let  me.  I  want 
simple  kindergarten  methods.  They  suit  my  in- 
tellectual development.  Mother,  may  we  not  have 
the  Rome  first,  and  after  that  your  book?  It  would 
be  so  sad  to  lose  this  chance,  —  the  blocks  ready  to 
hand." 

We  all  laughed  at  Filia's  frank  simplicity,  but  the 
Contessa  changed  her  place  and,  having  with  fine 
ceremony  asked  Gigi's  leave  to  use  his  property,  she 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  rug  in  the  midst  of  which  Filia 
was  planted,  the  building  blocks  being  strewn  about 
her.  The  small  Gigi  threw  his  head  back  against 
his  mother's  shoulder  and  sat  watching  with  great 


Gossip  and  a  Garden  123 

eyes  of  wonder  the  young  lady  who  wished  to  play 
with  his  toys. 

"  Very  well,"  the  Contessa  began  in  a  crisp,  busi- 
ness-like tone;  "  for  this  we  will  spare  ten  minutes. 
More  can  not  be  devoted  to  the  infant  mind.  So 
then,  Rome  on  Rome,  Rome  on  Rome :  —  Pagan 
Rome  first;  Christian  Rome  after!  Lay  two  or 
three  long  blue  blocks  ends  together  if  you  please, 
Piccola,  here  where  I  point." 

FiHa  did  as  directed. 

"  That  is  the  first  range  of  our  wall;  it  stands  for 
the  deep  down.  Mythical  Rome,  —  the  Rome  you 
have  to  dig  to  get  to,  —  dig  in  the  ground  and  dig 
in  the  histories.  Kindly  remember  at  this  point 
that  scholars  say  one  may  get  a  superficial  impres- 
sion of  Rome  in  ten  years  of  study,  but  that  twenty 
years  would  be  necessary  to  know  anything  about  it." 

"  The  veiy  reason  I  stick  to  kindergarten,  Altezza," 
thus  Filia  meekly. 

"  Ecco !  You  have  then  there  Pre-historic  Rome,  of 
which  you  are  only  reminded  visibly  here  in  the  city 
by  a  few  *  stones  '  still  remaining,  such  as  the  block 
of  the  Servian  Wall  in  the  Via  Nazionale,  the  Cloaca 
Maxima,  —  Etruscan  by  the  way,  —  and  a  few 
broken  pillars  and  pavements  in  the  Forum  Romano- 
rum.  Also,  of  course,  by  perpetual  she-wolves,  — 
the  sixth  century  Capitohne  wolf  and  various  later 
ones,  '  made  in  Germany,'  probably." 


124  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  But  the  Temple  of  Castor  and  Pollux  in  the 
Forum,"  I  interposed;  "  does  not  that  belong  to 
Primitive  Rome?  " 

"  Almost,  but  it  was  not  dedicated  until  twenty 
years  after  the  time  when  Republican  Rome  sud- 
denly came  into  being.  The  date  509  B.C.  is  usually 
given  for  the  ending  of  the  Tarquins,  and  all  the 
other  Latin-Etruscan  myths,  and  the  beginning 
under  Junius  Brutus,  First  Consul,  of  the  authentic 
Repubhc  of  Rome.  Please  lay  your  second  blue 
row,  Signorina." 

"  RepubUcan  Rome,  —  Pagan?  " 

"  Precisely.  This  is  Rome  glorious,  strenuous, 
virtuous,  \drile;  the  Rome  which  gave  the  basis  of 
law  to  all  the  world;  the  Rome  of  patrician  and 
plebeian;  of  consuls  and  pontiffs,  praetors,  tribunes, 
decemvirs,  and  senators;  Rome  before  she  became 
over-civiHzed,  over-Hellenized,  decadent.  The  strug- 
gles between  Rome  and  Carthage,  the  story  of  Hanni- 
bal and  the  Punic  Wars,  you  will  remember,  belong 
to  Republican  Rome.  There  was  not  much  of 
notable  permanent  building,  but  the  first  paved  road 
was  laid  by  Appius  Claudius  in  312  B.C.,  —  the  Ap- 
pian  Way.  Your  third  layer  now,  still  Pagan, 
though  turning  Christian,  must  be  blue  and  must 
be  laid  for  Imperial  Rome,  Signorina  Filia.  Mr. 
Crawford  says,  —  very  well,  I  think,  —  that  in  the 
long  tempest  of  parties  the  Roman  Republic  went 


Gossip  and  a  Garden  125 

down  for  ever  and  Julius  Caesar  rose  in  the  centre  of 
the  storm,  driving  it  before  him,  master  of  Rome 
and  of  the  world.  Saluted  as  Pontifex  Maximus  and 
Imperator,  his  supremacy  in  religion,  in  the  state 
and  the  army  marks  the  change  to  the  Empire.  (I 
consider  that  I  am  talking  rather  well,  but  it  is 
mostly  Mr.  Crawford.)  It  was  about  the  year  45  B.C. 
that  JuHus  Caesar  was  constituted  first  Emperor.  The 
JuHan  and  Claudian  dynasties  were  followed  by  the 
Flavian.  Under  the  Antonines  the  highest  plane  of 
Greco-Roman  civiHzation  was  reached,  the  Golden 
Age  of  the  Empire  I  think  it  is  called.  The  greatest 
architectural  achievements,  such  as  the  buildings  in 
the  Campus  Martius,  the  Cohseum,  the  Pantheon, 
the  Arch  of  Titus,  the  chief  Fora  and  temples  and 
the  great  aqueducts  of  the  Campagna  came  before 
the  Soldier-Emperors.  Still  we  have  the  Thermae  of 
Caracalla  and  Diocletian  under  these,  and  even  later 
the  Arch  built  by  Constantine,  the  last  ruler  of  the 
undivided  Roman  Empire  and  its  Divider.  Con- 
ventionally the  Empire  lasted  until  476,  but  it  died 
a  slow  death  under  a  Kne  of  puppet  rulers,  the  last 
of  whom  was  Romulus  Augustus." 

"  Rome  began,  and  in  a  sense  ended  then,  with  a 
Romulus,"  remarked  Filia. 

''Bright  child!  Take  your  place  at  the  head  of 
the  class.  Now  we  will  change  the  colour;  take  white 
blocks  if  you  please  for  Christian  Rome.     But  we 


126  The  Spell  of  Italy 

can  no  longer  stick  to  a  chronological  sequence  in  our 
strata,  for  our  next  two  layers,  representing  the 
Rise  of  Chiistianity,  are  really  contemporary  with 
our  last,  —  Imperial  Rome.  We  must  remember 
this  fact  as  we  build.  The  movement  is  an  advance 
morally  but  not  in  time,  being  included  within  the 
limits  of  the  Empire.  So  then:  the  Author  of  the 
Christian  rehgion  was  born,  —  you  may  have  heard! 
—  in  a  Roman  province  in  Asia  in  the  reign  of  Augus- 
tus, second  Emperor;  and  during  the  reign  of  Clau- 
dius, fifth  Emperor,  his  rehgion  reaches  Rome.  The 
first  great  course  which  you  lay  is  Roman  Christianity, 
Persecuted  and  in  the  Tombs.  This  from  about 
64  A.  D.,  to  the  date  of  Constantine's  proclamation  of 
tolerance,  the  year  313,  —  the  Edict  of  Milan,  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  to  call  it.  Tliis  period  covers  all  the 
great  Pagan  persecutions,  the  obscure  but  I'apid 
growth  of  the  Church,  and  the  dawning  of  Rome's 
modem,  universal  spiritual  Empire.  The  chief 
Christian  memorials  of  this  age  and  the  next 
are  the  Catacombs  and  a  few  remnants  of  Basil- 
icas. 

"  Now  another  layer;  Roman  Christianity  on  the 
Throne  of  the  Caesars.  The  sites  of  Saint  Peter's,  the 
Lateran  and  some  other  churches  stand  for  this 
epoch,  but  above  ground  there  is  little  left.  Chris- 
tianity becomes  the  Imperial  rehgion,  but  mean- 
while the  Empire  is  divided  between  West  and  East 


Gossip  and  a  Garden  127 


and  Constantinople  gains  sway  while  Rome  loses. 
Tliis  means  Byzantine  influence  thi'oughout  Italy; 
and  we  must  recognize  it  in  Rome  also.  Still  we 
cannot  give  it  separate  classification.  Byzantine  rule 
passes  out  of  sight  with  the  beginning  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire,  which  I  Uke  to  date  from  Charle- 
magne, A.  D.  800." 

''  Shall  I  not  lay  stones  for  Byzantine  rule  and  the 
Holy  Roman  Empire?  "  asked  Fiha. 

"  No,  I  think  not.     They  really  are  all  included 
under  the  third  course  of  Cliristian  Rome.     Papal 
Rome  begins  to  assume  proportions  at  about  the 
time  that  Imperial  Rome  decays.     The  third  layer 
for  Christian  Rome,  which  marks,  please  notice,  an 
advance  chronologically  again,  must  be  very  broad 
and  inclusive.     Lay  the  stone,  and  call  it  Papal  and 
Mediaeval    Rome.      The   Bishops  or  Metropohtans 
of  Rome  had  been  pressing  harder  and  harder  their 
claims  to  universal  supremacy,  and  with   Leo  I  in 
the  middle  of  the  fifth  century  these  seem  to  have 
been  acknowledged.     When  Leo  III  placed  the  im- 
perial crown  on  the  head  of  Charlemagne  and  saluted 
him  as  Augustus,  these  pretensions  received  strongest 
confirmation.     Thenceforward,  until  the  nineteenth 
century,  the  Papacy  has  dominated  Rome,  —  aside 
from  the  interval  of  the  Great  Schism,  the  Avignon 
residence  and  all  that.     This  is  the  period  of  the 
earliest  appearance  of  the  feudal  lords  such  as  the 


128  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Colonna  and  Orsini  and  the  other  great  barons,  who 
later  made  such  endless  confusion." 

"  What  buildings  do  we  find  to  represent  that 
period?  "  I  asked. 

"  There  is  almost  nothing  left  to  show.  Succes- 
sive devastations  of  the  city  by  hostile  armies  and 
by  fire  have  wiped  out  the  traces  of  mediaeval  as 
well  as  of  early  Christian  Rome,  aside  from  founda- 
tion walls  and  the  Catacombs.  But  our  next  period 
builds  a  new  Rome.  In  the  thirteenth  century  the 
Italian  Renaissance  dawns.  We  must  lay  a  course 
for  that  above  the  Papal  and  Mediaeval,  and  call  it 
Papal  and  Renaissance.  All  Rome  witnesses  to  the 
glory  and  ascendency  of  this  period,  even  these 
gardens  of  the  Borghese;  but  the  Dome  of  St.  Peter's 
is  the  supreme  achievement  of  the  supreme  Master 
of  the  Renaissance.  Now  one  more  —  the  cap 
stones:  Modern  Rome,  or  better,  Italian  Rome,  — 
architecturally  I  must  admit  perfectly  hideous,  — 
but  no  matter.  You  remember  that  two  thousand 
years  ago  Italy  became  Roman,  forty  years  ago 
Rome  became  Italian.    The  Wall  of  Rome  is  built." 

"  Ecco!  Rome  on  Rome  it  certainly  is.  And  this 
is  the  wall  that  7  built,"  with  pride  returned  Filia, 
and  cautiously  placed  the  fifth  white  course  on  her 
somewhat  tottering  structure.  "  Gigi,  caro  mio, 
listen  and  hear  me  say  my  lesson  backwards; " 
with  this  she  lifted  again  the  top  stones  from  her 


Gossip  and  a  Garden  129 

wall  and  laid  them  aside:  "  This  is  our  own  Rome  of 
to-day;  "  then,  —  repeating  the  process,  —  "  This 
was  Rome  Papal  and  Renaissance,  when  the  splendid 
churches  and  palaces  were  built;  this  was  Rome 
Papal  and  Mediaeval,  when  Rome  fell  and  after  a 
while  the  Holy  Roman  Empire  finished  up  the 
Byzantine  interference  and  began  itself;  this  was 
Roman  Christianity  on  the  Throne  of  the  Caesars, 
placed  there  by  Constantine  who  divided  the  Empire; 
this  was  Roman  Christianity,  hiding  in  the  Tombs  and 
being  persecuted  by  the  Emperors." 

With  each  sentence  Fiha  had  removed  a  layer  of 
white  blocks.  Only  the  lower  blue  layers  now  re- 
mained. 

"  Pagan  Rome  now.  This,"  she  continued,  "  was 
Imperial  Rome,  mostly  a.  d.,  part  Pagan  and  part 
Christian;  this  was  Repubhcan  Rome  altogether 
Pagan  and  altogether  b.  c.  ;  this  was  Mythical  Rome, 
undatable."  She  scattered  the  blocks  abroad  with 
playful  energy. 

"  Back  to  bare  ground  again,  Gigi.  Now  you  can 
have  the  blocks.  You  were  angeUc  to  let  me  play 
with  them  such  a  long  while.  And  for  you,  Signora 
Contessa,  —  words  fail  to  express  my  gratitude  for 
thus  condescending  to  my  humble  intelhgence." 

I  echoed  Fiha's  gratitude,  finding  indeed  essential 
help  in  the  process  of  my  orientation  in  Rome  through 
the  Contessa's  rapid  resume. 


130 


The  Spell  of  Italy 


"It  is  a  rough,  a  sketchy  treatment,  simple  and 
unscholarly,  but  en  passant  it  helps,"  returned  our 
friend.  "  And  now,  Signora,  for  the  letter  of  Horace. 
That  is  to  be  my  reward." 


2= 


Ro'me 


/^loaeTTv  CLtid  Italiairw 


RoTr\ft  Pg-pftt     ttncl   RgnaiaaaTtce 


IX 

WHITE    AND    BLACK 

NOUGH,  Horace,  of  these  mortuary  mus- 
ings. You  loved,  the  lesson  of  the  roses, 
and  now  and  again  would  speak  some- 
what like  a  death's  head  over  your 
temperate  cups  of  Sabine  ordinaire.  Your  melan- 
choly moral  was  but  meant  to  heighten  the  joy 
of  your  pleasant  Hfe,  when  wearied  Italy,  after 
all  her  wars  and  civic  bloodshed,  had  won  a  peace- 
ful haven.  ...  In  the  lull  between  the  two  tem- 
pests of  RepubUc  and  Empire  your  odes  sound  '  Hke 
linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind.'  .  .  .  How  human 
are  all  your  verses,  Horace !  what  a  pleasure  is  yours 
in  the  straining  poplars,  swaying  in  the  wind!  what 
gladness  you  gain  from  the  white  crest  of  Soracte. 
.  .  .  You  seem  to  me  like  a  man  who  welcomes 
middle  age,  and  is  more  glad  than  Sophocles  was  to 
*  flee  from  these  hard  masters,'  the  passions.  In  the 
fallow  leisure  of  hfe  you  glance  round  contented,  and 
find  all  very  good  save  the  need  to  leave  all  behind. 
Even  that  you  take  with  an  Italian  good-humour,  as 

131 


132  The  Spell  of  Italy 

the  folk  of  your  suiiny  country  bear  poverty  and 
hunger. 

"  Durum,  sed  levius  fit  patientia!  To  them,  to  you, 
the  loveliness  of  your  land  is,  and  was,  a  thing  to  live 
for.  None  of  the  Latin  poets  your  fellows,  or  none 
but  Virgil,  seem  to  me  to  have  known  so  well  as  you, 
Horace,  how  happy  and  fortunate  a  thing  it  was  to 
be  born  in  Italy.  ...  *  Me  neither  resolute  Sparta 
nor  the  rich  Larissaean  plain  so  enraptures  as  the 
fane  of  echoing  Albunea,  the  headlong  Anio,  the 
grove  of  Tibur,  the  orchards  watered  by  the  wander- 
ing rills.' 

"  So  a  poet  should  speak  —  " 

"Enrico!  Pardon  me  for  interrupting  the 
charming  letter,  but  there  is  my  husband  at 
last." 

As  the  Contessa  spoke  our  al  fresco  reading  circle 
was  approached  by  a  distinguished  looking  gentle- 
man, whom,  in  meeting,  we  found  to  have  Latin 
gravity  of  manner  combined  with  Sicilian  beauty  of 
person.  The  Conte  was  a  grandson  of  one  of  Gari- 
baldi's famous  "  Thousand,"  a  Catanian  hero, 
married  later  to  a  Roman  lady.  Conte  Carletti  is 
himself  a  member  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  and, 
as  might  be  expected,  ardently  White  in  politics. 
Unfortunately  he  spoke  Enghsh  with  diffidence  and 
hesitation,  but  Filia,  who  was  now  becoming  fluent  in 
Itahan,  relieved  him,  the  general  civihties  of  initiat- 


White  and  Black  133 

ing  acquaintance  once  over,  by  conversing  valiantly 
in  his  own  language. 

Meanwhile,  and  for  the  first  time,  I  found  the 
opportunity  I  had  desired  to  ask  the  Contessa  con- 
cerning her  literary  work,  of  which  Signor  Aztalos 
had  given  us  a  hint.  She  met  me  with  character- 
istic unaffected  frankness,  manifesting  a  vivid  interest 
in  the  theme. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  writing  when  I 
could  command  time  for  a  number  of  years.  Some- 
times I  write  verses,  very  simple  ones,  you  know, 
but  I  like  better  fiction  —  short  stories  best." 

"  But  not  in  Enghsh?  " 

"  Never.  You  can  see  I  do  not  speak  Enghsh 
idiomatically.  I  could  not  venture  to  write  in 
it." 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  read  Italian !  " 

"  I  should  hke  it  if  you  could,  for  I  think  we  should 
know  each  other  still  better  if  you  read  some  httle 
things  of  mine." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  of  late?  " 

"  A  short  noveUe  called  '  Vertu  in  Rilevo.'  It  is 
to  be  published  presently  in  Milan.  Milan,  you 
know,  is  now  our  great  literary  centre,  superseding 
Florence  and  Rome,  as  New  York  I  find  has  taken 
the  place  of  Boston  in  America.  Ah,  there  is  a  mar- 
vellous new  Hfe  and  initiative  in  Milan !  You  would 
love  it  if  you  once  really  knew  it.    But  no  Americans 


134  The  Spell  of  Italy 

ever  stay  more  than  twenty-four  hours  there,  and 
they  see  nothing  but  trams  and  the  Duomo." 

"And  your  story  is  to  be  pubhshed  in  Milan; 
can  you  tell  me  anything  about  it?  I  should  like 
extremely  to  know  what  you  enjoy  writing  about, 
for  that  you  do  enjoy  your  work  I  can  see." 

The  Contessa's  face,  which  has  the  transparent 
clarity  of  porcelain,  shone  as  from  a  light  within,  but 
in  her  eyes  was  a  shadow  of  brooding  thought. 

"  When  you  have  been  to  Perugia  you  will  under- 
stand better  what  this  new  story  means,  and  how  it 
came  to  me.  I  wrote  it  in  Perugia,  not  two  months 
since,  when  I  was  there  for  a  week  with  Enrico. 
One  cannot  help  being  romantic,  poetic  even,  in 
Perugia.  Except  Rome  there  is  no  city  in  Italy 
which  so  dominates  my  imagination.  Perhaps, 
though,  you  may  think  it  gloomy.  But  it  is  a  place 
in  which  one  can  study  Italy  marvellously  well,  — 
thoroughly  typical,  you  know;  one  might  say  Italy  in 
miniature." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  care  very  much  for  Perugia. 
We  plan  for  a  whole  week  there,  when  we  leave  here. 
Contessa  Carletti,  I  have  a  bright,  but  a  very  bold 
thought :  I  must  read  this  Perugia  talc  of  '  Vertu  in 
Rilevo,'  and  I  must  read  it  in  Perugia.  My  daughter 
is  a  fair  Italian  scholar,  you  know,  and  she  has  a 
decided  facility  in  translating  at  sight." 

"  Eceo!   You  \Aall  ask  then  to  take  to  Perugia  a 


White  and  Black  135 

copy  of  my  novelle,  and  there  Signorina  Filia  will 
read  it  to  you  wliile  you  sit  in  your  window  of  the 
Brufani  looking  out  across  all  Umbria.  The  Tiber, 
flowing  past  the  foot  of  the  hill,  shall  carry  back  to 
Rome,  to  me,  the  sound  of  my  own  Perugia  dream- 
ing, done  into  English  gently  and  sincerely  by  that 
dear  simpatica  soul !  Gladly,  most  gladly  I  will  lend 
the  manuscript  to  you,  Signora.  It  is  really  quite 
American:  the  persons-in-chief  are  American,  not 
Italian  in  fact.  I  can  always  keep  in  touch  with 
that  point  of  view  because  I  go  over  to  \dsit  my 
relatives  now  and  again.  As  I  told  you,  I  spent  the 
winter  in  Boston  three  years  ago,  and  Em-ico  was 
with  me.  How  famously  he  and  your  little  Signorina 
are  getting  on!  He  looks  positively  enthralled.  I 
am  sure  he  would  be  by  her  Itahan,  for  she  has  a 
charming  little  accent  of  her  own,  so  different  from 
most  American-Itahan." 

"  I  fancy  it  may  be  Greek-Itahan,  Contessa." 
"  Oh,  Signor  Aztalos  gave  her  lessons,  you  told 
me,  on  the  steamer.  No  wonder  he  did !  "  added  the 
Contessa,  laughing.  "It  is  fortunate  that  I  am  not 
Itahan  born,  for  do  you  know  it  is  quite  probable,  if 
I  were,  that  at  this  moment  I  should  begin  to  turn 
a  chiUing  and  resentful  shoulder  to  you  and  your 
daughter,  for  the  simple  reason  that  my  husband 
so  plainly  finds  the  Signorina  interesting." 
"Oh,  but  no,  Contessa!" 


136  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  Oh,  but  yes,  Signora!  Italian  women  are,  in 
that  regard,  absolute  children.  It  is  most  amusing 
at  times,  but  also  most  to  be  regretted.  And  still 
they  have  often  but  too  good  reason  for  jealousy. 
Italian  morals  are  not  all  they  should  be.  There  are 
few  men,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  hke  my  husband.  Enrico ! 
It  is  time  to  go.  I  shall  be  presently  jealous;  and 
besides,  the  children  should  be  having  their 
supper." 

We  broke  up  soon  after  this.  The  Conte  and  Con- 
tessa,  having  despatched  the  Uttle  family  band  with 
nurse  and  maestra  in  the  motor-car,  walked  them- 
selves to  the  door  of  our  pensione  with  Fiha  and  me. 

While  we  dressed  for  dinner  I  inquired  of  Fiha 
concerning  the  conversation  with  Senator  Carletti 
which  had  been  apparently  engrossing  and  had  lasted, 
despite  various  interruptions,  all  the  way  from  the 
Villa  Borghese. 

'*  A  Roman  Senator!  "  cried  Fiha  with  rapturous 
gestures  and  upturned  eyes.  "  Fancy  having  a 
Roman  Senator  talking  Roman  poUtics  to  you  for 
an  hour!  Never  did  I  hope  to  see  this  day.  What 
did  he  say,  you  ask?  He  said  everything  interesting 
concerning  the  poUtical  situation  here,  everything, 
that  is,  for  a  White.  I  suppose  the  Blacks  have  an- 
other tale  to  tell,  but  we  are  of  course  inevitably  and 
wholly  White;  at  least  I  am.    Are  not  you?  " 

"  White  being  Quirinal,  Black  being  Vatican  —  yes. 


White  and  Black  137 

I  am  at  least  whiter  than  I  am  black!  But  I  should 
hke  to  know  what  an  intelligent  sympathizer  with 
the  Vatican  would  say." 

"  Oh,  I  can  tell  you  that.  II  Conte  told  me  that 
the  Vatican  considers  the  annexation  of  the  Papal 
States  to  the  Kingdom  of  Italy,  and  above  all  the 
taking  of  Rome  for  the  national  capital,  as  '  a  mighty 
theft,'  just  bare,  ruffianly  robbery.  The  House  of 
Savoy  is  a  sheer  usurper  here,  and  a  worse  than 
any  foreign  usurper;  indeed  the  correct  thing  in 
Black  circles  is  to  say  that  the  present  reigning 
house  has  not  a  drop  of  ItaUan  blood  in  its  veins. 
Savoy  is  now,  as  Signor  Aztalos  told  us,  French, 
whatever  it  may  have  been.  The  fact  that  the 
kings  of  Italy  have  been  good  Catholics  only  adds 
to  the  heinousness  of  their  offence;  although  per- 
sonally even  Pio  Nono  used  to  call  Vittorio 
Emanuele  II  an  honest  man,  and  sent  him  per- 
mission to  have  the  sacrament  and  also  his  blessing 
on  his  death-bed.  Did  you  know  that  the  old  Pope 
died  the  very  next  month  after  the  King?  Strange, 
was  it  not?  Then,  to  go  on,  the  Vatican  pose  is  that 
the  Church  in  Italy  is  sorely  persecuted  as  weU  as 
robbed,  and  that  no  one  can  be  a  sincere  Catholic 
and  not  protest  against  the  existing  government. 
Consequently  no  Catholic  could  be  justified  in  taking 
part  in  Parhamentary  elections,  either  as  candidate 
or  elector." 


138  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  What  a  situation,  —  an  absolute  impasse,  I 
should  think." 

"  Yes,  but  under  Pius  X  it  has  given  way.  But 
Conte  Carletti  told  me  a  very  interesting  incident 
to  illustrate  the  point,  of  a  priest  named  Curci,  a 
wise,  fearless  Christian  man,  who  published  a  pam- 
phlet during  Leo's  pontificate,  in  which  he  pleaded 
that  participation  in  national  politics  was  the  duty  of 
Italian  men,  also  for  reconciliation  of  the  Pope  with 
the  constitutional  monarchy;  then  besides  he  spoke 
of  the  Dogma  of  InfalUbility  as  a  stumbhng-block 
in  the  way  of  the  Gospel.  For  this  pubHcation  he 
was  expelled  from  the  Order  of  Jesuits,  his  book  was 
condemned  by  the  Congregation  of  the  Index,  and 
he  was  required  by  way  of  retraction  to  assent  to 
three  propositions.  Of  course  this  meant  that  these 
propositions  are  what  the  Papacy  holds  as  funda- 
mental and  essential.  I  forgot  whether  Curci  re- 
tracted or  was  poisoned.  Probably  the  last.  They 
generally  were." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  propositions?  " 

"  Yes.  First,  speedy  reestablishment  of  the 
temporal  power  of  the  Popes;  second,  the  duty 
of  all  sincere  Catholics  to  abstain  from  voting 
at  political  elections;  third,  the  impossibility  of 
coexistence  for  the  Papacy  and  the  Kingdom  of 
Italy." 

"  Astonishing!    I  do  not  see  how  the  kings  have 


White  and.  Black  139 

tolerated  the  Papacy  with  such  pretensions  here  in 
the  very  heart  of  their  kingdom,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  No  other  king  or  nation  would  tolerate  it,  Senator 
Carletti  says.  But  very  recently,  that  is  since  1905, 
there  has  been  a  change  of  front.  In  general  his  idea 
seems  to  be  that  the  Quirinal  regards  the  Vatican 
pose  with  a  kind  of  amused  patience,  knowing  it  is 
just  a  '  great  game  of  bluff,'  which  may  impose  on 
foreigners  but  which  Italians  see  through  perfectly. 
So  they  smile  sarcastically  when  the  Papalists  ap- 
peal to  the  nations  to  '  break  the  chains  of  Peter; ' 
they  let  the  Jesuits  plot  with  the  SociaUsts  even  to 
overthrow  the  Government,  and  intrigue  with  the 
Courts  of  Europe  harmlessly  for  the  restoration  of 
the  Temporal  Power.  The  Vatican  makes  no  head- 
way with  Austria,  it  seems.  This  pleases  me  to 
know:  from  the  year  1866,  so  says  Senator  Carletti, 
when  Austria  resigned  the  Iron  Crown  of  Lombardy, 
—  that  was  the  symbol  of  course  of  her  Italian 
domination,  —  she  has  acted  with  simply  magnifi- 
cent loyalty  towards  the  new  ItaHan  kingdom.  She 
even  urged  Rome  as  capital.  The  Vatican  can  never 
forgive  Austria  that,  naturally.  The  Pope  knows 
now  perfectly  that  Austria  will  never  help  in  the 
recovery  of  his  temporaHties.  The  old  Emperor 
and  Vittorio  Emanuele  II  became  the  best  of  friends 
in  the  end." 

"  Certainly  Rome  is  the  only  city  in  the  world 


140  The  Spell  of  Italy 

which  is  the  seat  of  two  mutually  antagonistic  gov- 
ernments, two  rival  thrones,  two  rival  courts.  I 
never  quite  reaHzed  the  situation  before,  and  really," 
I  reflected,  "  I  cannot  see  how  it  can  have  been  sus- 
tained for  so  long,  quite  forty  years  now." 

"  Just  fancy  the  King  of  Italy  being  excommuni- 
cated from  the  Church!  Actually  he  could  only  be 
married  in  the  Church  of  S.  Maria  degli  Angeli 
because  that  is  in  the  precincts  of  the  Thermae  of 
Diocletian,  which  is  the  property  of  the  State  and 
not  under  Papal  jurisdiction." 

*'  Does  Conte  Carletti  admire  the  present  king?  " 

"  Enthusiastically.  Umberto  made  no  appeal  to 
the  pride,  or  passion,  or  to  the  imagination  of  the 
people,  but  he  says  that  his  violent  death  awakened 
Italy.  Nothing  he  thinks  could  have  been  finer  than 
the  speech  of  Vittorio  Emanuele  III  when  he  opened 
his  first  Parliament,  the  eyes  of  all  Italy  and  all 
Europe  upon  him.  He  quoted  a  sentence  which  I 
scribbled  on  a  page  of  my  note-book.  Listen  and 
see  if  you  are  not  altogether  White:  '  Unabashed  and 
steadfast  I  ascend  the  throne,  conscious  of  my  rights 
and  my  duties,  as  King.  Let  Italy  have  faith  in  me 
as  I  have  faith  in  her  destinies,  and  no  human  force 
shall  destroy  that  which  with  such  self-sacrifice  my 
fathers  built.'  " 

"  That  rings  firm  and  true.  With  a  man  like  that 
on  the  throne  time  will  heal  the  old  wounds." 


White  and  Black  141 

"  But  there  is  one  thing  I  could  see  plainly  from 
my  talk  with  il  Conte,"  continued  Filia,  "  and  that 
is  really  the  worst  wound  of  all:  it  has  become 
nearly  an  impossibihty  for  an  intelligent  and  pat- 
riotic Itahan  to  be  a  good  Christian,  I  asked  him 
whether  he  were  himself  Cathohc,  and  he  repHed: 
*  The  Catholic  Church  is  the  enemy  of  United  Italy, 
Can  an  Italian,  then,  who  loves  his  country,  be 
Cathohc?  '  Then  I  said  that  I  supposed  he  must  be 
Protestant,  but  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said 
that  Protestantism  did  not  suit  the  Itahan  tempera- 
ment, that  it  was  colourless,  '  In  reahty,'  he  told 
me,  '  we  are  all  pagan  here,  and  the  majority,  as  in 
the  days  of  Imperial  Rome,  have  no  gods.'  " 

"  A  melancholy  state  of  things!  I  wish,  however, 
I  could  ask  il  Conte  a  few  questions  about  the  Mod- 
ernists, about  Murri,  and  about  Fogazzaro's  dream 
of  a  purified  Catholicism.  I  cannot  help  hoping  that 
light  is  breaking  from  that  direction," 

At  dinner  we  found  certain  friends  of  travel, 
Americans,  discussing  a  presentation  of  II  Trovatore 
for  the  evening.  They  said  it  would  not  be  good  as 
it  was  summer  theatre  now,  and  no  star  singers  were 
on,  but  they  had  purchased  tickets,  tliinking  it 
would  be  at  least  amusing.  Being  pressed  to  join  in 
the  adventure,  Fiha  and  I  hurried  away  from  the 
table  to  cabs  which  had  been  ordered  for  the  party, 
and  soon  after  eight  found  ourselves  in  the  Teatro 


142  The  Spell  of  Italy 

occupying  poltrone  (orchestra  chairs)  before  a  stage 
of  crude  appointments  and  amid  groups  of  men 
who  kept  their  hats  on  and  smoked  cheerfully. 

We  soon  discovered  that  ItaUans  of  position  do 
not  frequent  the  poltrone;  the  choice  of  these  seats 
is  considered  over  here  an  American  aberration  of 
mind.  They  are  always  offered,  however,  to  fores- 
tieri  who  generally,  as  in  our  own  case,  know  no 
better  than  to  take  them.  As  we  were  a  party  of 
sufficient  proportions  and  respectability  to  feel  no 
embarrassment  we  gave  ourselves  up  to  getting  all 
possible  local  colour  from  our  environment,  and  we 
found  a  plenty. 

The  whole  performance  was  naive  and  informal 
to  a  degree.  People  strolled  about  and  changed  their 
seats  as  they  chose  without  restraint;  the  musicians 
laughed  and  chattered  incessantly;  the  hghts  were 
kept  on  at  full  height  all  through;  the  enthusiasm 
was  wildly  sincere;  the  singers  sang  to  the  galleries 
frankly  and  without  disguise.  The  leading  lady  was 
an  Amazon  of  at  least  six  feet  in  height,  while  the 
tenor,  being  tiny,  watched  her  anxiously  as  she  was 
predisposed  to  fainting  turns,  in  any  one  of  which 
he  was  likely  to  be  exterminated.  Leonora's  elderly 
duenna  had  a  confidential  and  affable  air,  and  her 
person,  which  was  portly,  was  packed  into  a  satin 
gown  of  a  high  shade  of  pink  —  "  Solferino  "  in 
fact.     (See  Battle  of,  June  24,  1859;   by  the  same 


White  and  Black  143 

token  "  Magenta,"  Battle  of,  June  4.  The  derivation 
of  these  colour  names  I  had  never  perceived  until  I 
came  to  Italy.)  The  lady  wore  leg  o'  mutton  sleeves, 
a  waist  hne  under  her  arms,  and  an  umbrageous 
pompadour.  The  basso  was  a  black-a-vised  heavy- 
villain  slashed  in  red  and  yellow;  the  Zingarella  was 
matronly  but  personable.  Altogether  the  singers  and 
the  stage  bordered  perilously  on  absurdity,  and  Filia 
and  I  were  kept  on  the  edge  of  disgracing  ourselves 
by  betraying  our  acute  amusement.  But  the  redeem- 
ing feature  was  the  singing  of  these  bizarre  creatures. 
They  seemed  to  have  their  great  chests  full  of  song, 
which  flooded  the  place  like  a  surge  of  harmony. 
One  never  hears  such  singing  in  America;  there  w^as 
no  question  as  to  technic,  it  was  simply  nature,  — 
and  a  great  deal  of  it,  a  whole-souled  outpouring 
which  carried  even  us  cold-blooded  forestieri  away 
to  cry  "  Bis!  bis!  "  with  the  rest  in  the  end.  There 
is  an  almost  pathetic  element  to  me  in  the  unfail- 
ing fervour  of  response  on  the  part  of  Italians  to  the 
airs  of  II  Trovatore  and  La  Traviata.  To  the  Southern 
nature  Verdi's  appeal  is  apparently  deathless. 

Our  second  week  in  Rome,  shaped  in  great  measure 
by  the  advice  of  the  Contessa  Carletti,  yielded  us  far 
more  satisfaction  than  the  first,  proved  to  us  indeed 
that  we  could  bear  Rome,  yes,  love  it.  The  excursions 
to  Frascati  and  TivoH  were  of  all  our  experiences  in 
Rome  most  ardently  enjoyed.     To   my   mind  the 


144  The  Spell  of  Italy 

broad,  billowing  reaches  of  the  Campagna,  the  tombs, 
the  broken  arches  of  the  aqueducts,  the  great  gray 
and  white  oxen,  the  thick  sown  poppies,  the  outhne 
of  Soracte,  the  Alban  group  and  the  distant  Sabine 
mountains,  the  views  of  Rome  from  afar  and  on  the 
return,  exceed  in  lasting  value  of  impression  that  of 
the  minutise  of  sight-seeing  within  the  city  gates. 
Among  the  most  refreshing  of  all  our  visions  of  Italy 
are  the  pools  and  fountains,  the  mossy  carvings 
beneath  the  cypress  avenues  of  the  Villa  d'Este;  the 
baths  and  porticoes  of  Hadrian's  Villa;  the  ancient 
olives  on  the  slopes  of  Tivoli;  the  Falls  of  the  Anio, 
—  stream  dear  to  the  heart  of  Horace.  In  the 
silence  and  shade  of  these  scenes  we  felt  a  peace  of 
deliverance  from  the  confusion  and  sufTering  of 
Roman  fever,  —  by  which  term  I  have  defined  the 
mania  of  seeing  everything  named  in  the  guide-book 
until  the  congested  brain  loses  all  capacity  for  as- 
similation. 

We  had  our  part  in  the  feverish  throng,  however,  on 
Corpus  Christi  Day,  when  we  stood  in  St.  Peter's 
throughout  the  celebration  of  High  Mass,  and  the 
pageant  of  the  Procession  of  the  Host.  Cardinal 
RampoUa,  as  Vicar  of  St.  Peter's,  w^as  the  celebrant 
priest.  He  is  an  imposing  personage,  and  looks  quite 
one's  conception  of  a  supreme  pontiff  of  the  Roman 
Church,  his  heavily  lined  and  broadly  modelled 
features  possessing  a  species  of  Romanesque  facial 


White  and  Black  145 

architecture.  As  he  passed  close  beside  us,  with  the 
procession,  his  hands,  which  held  aloft  the  glittering 
ciborium,  trembled  noticeably  and  the  great  emerald 
on  his  right  hand  flickered  and  flashed  out  green  fire. 
His  face,  in  that  moment  of  exposure  to  keen  com- 
mon scrutiny,  wore  the  palpable  ecclesiastical  mask 
in  which  the  sought-for  spiritual  exaltation  subtly 
shades  into  automatic  sanctity. 

Throughout  the  prolonged  ceremonies  of  the  Mass 
We  studied  the  faces  of  the  canons  and  prelates 
assembled  in  the  choir,  arrayed  in  gorgeous  vest- 
ments of  crimson,  purple,  find  marveDous  lace. 
Even  in  the  supreme  moment  of  the  Elevation  of  the 
Host  one  could  not  fail  to  note  on  their  faces  the 
half-impatient,  half-sardonic  look  of  enforced  at- 
tention, the  ill-concealed  weariness  of  actors  of 
played-out  parts.  We  thought  of  these  ecclesiastics 
in  their  pohtical  intriguing,  in  their  sleepless  worldly 
ambitions,  their  social  diplomacies,  their  complacent 
participation  in  the  pleasures  of  dining  and  card- 
playing  among  fashionable  Blacks.  We  came  away 
wondering  less  than  before  even  that  Italians  "  quietly 
refuse  to  take  their  political  orders  from  the  Vatican." 
At  least  there  is  no  hypocrisy  at  the  Quirinal. 

Our  audience  with  Pius  X  strengthened  my  pre- 
vious conviction  that  the  present  Pope,  whether  he 
believes  in  liis  own  infallibility  or  not,  is  no  hypo- 
crite.   It  was  a  sufficiently  banal  ceremony  in  which 


146  The  Spell  of  Italy 

we  participated,  after  much  preparatory  red  tape, 
including  in  the  preceding  days  ascending  inter- 
minable stairs  to  present  ourselves  in  person  to 
Monsignor  Bisletti,  the  major-domo  of  the  Vatican, 
a  keen,  ferret-faced  Italian. 

A  hundred  or  more  of  us,  including  alike  the  faith- 
ful and  the  heretic,  assembled  at  the  appointed  time 
in  prescribed  costume,  were  driven  about  from  one 
hypothetical  audience-chamber  to  another  for  half 
an  hour  or  more.  Some  one  must  have  been  satisfied 
in  the  end,  for  having  waited  interminably  in  one 
long,  desolate  room,  the  signal  was  given  and  the 
Pope  entered  with  three  attendants.  I  was  able  to 
study  figure  and  face  at  leisure  as  the  old  pontiff 
walked  slowly  and  wearily  the  circuit  of  the  com- 
pany, his  steps  characterized  by  the  soft  shuffle  of  the 
ecclesiastic.  The  massive  figure  was  clothed  in 
white  (not  aggressively  white)  broadcloth,  the  feet 
in  red  slippers;  on  the  finger  was  the  great  pontifical 
emerald.  The  face  was  heavy,  inert  but  not  stolid, 
and  the  first  glance  revealed,  not  indisputably  a 
large  brain  behind,  but  a  large  heart  beneath.  There 
was  none  of  the  imposing  intellectuality  of  Cardinal 
Rampolla,  which  would  have  well  fitted  him  for 
successor  to  Leo  XIII,  —  the  marvellously  subtle 
Pecci,  with  his  keen  zest  for  the  tortuous  mazes  of 
diplomacy.  The  man  whose  tired  gray  eyes  looked 
not  unkindly  into  ours  that  noon  convinced  us,  in 


White  and  Black  147 

that  moment's  look,  of  liis  humility  as  a  Christian 
and  of  his  sincerity  as  a  priest.  His  official  acts 
must  be  interpreted  via  the  Jesuit  wire-pullers  who 
surround  him. 

On  the  morning  of  our  last  whole  day  in  Rome  we 
rose  early  for  a  drive  into  the  Campagna  along  the 
Appian  Way.  We  had  visited  the  Catacombs  and 
the  legend-haunted  churches  in  our  first  days  in 
Rome,  as  we  had  arrived  brimful  of  reverent  curiosity 
to  seek  out  every  trace  of  the  Apostohc  Church  and  of 
the  first  saints  and  martyrs.  To-day  we  drove  out 
through  the  Porta  San  Sebastiano  and  as  far  as  the 
Tomb  of  CeciHa  Metella  for  the  ensemble  in  the 
morning  light,  for  a  last  impression  of  the  horizon 
hills,  the  aqueducts,  the  tombs,  the  hoary  walls  and 
portals. 

Our  cocchiere,  eager  to  earn  an  extra  lira,  insisted 
upon  drawing  up  to  point  out  each  conventional 
feature  along  the  way,  upon  which,  not  caring  to 
stop,  Fiha  would  call  back  an  appreciative  "Bello! 
bello! "  and  motion  him  to  go  on.  In  the  end  she 
found  the  exercise  tiresome  and  declared  that  she 
should  "  bello  "  no  more.  Then  I  took  up  the  parable, 
but  the  cocchiere  appeared  to  take  the  suggestion 
and  left  us  in  peace.  And  there  was  peace  in  the 
vast  reaches  of  the  Campagna,  in  the  dewy  freshness 
shading  ofT  to  the  violet  distance,  silent,  unbroken  by 
hving  humanity.    Once  we  saw  a  shepherd  with  his 


148  The  Spell  of  Italy 

dog,  as  silent  as  statues  in  the  Capitoline  Museum, 
which  indeed  they  much  resembled;  the  quiet  sheep 
Were  grazing;  twice  we  passed  great  oxen  with  cream 
white  hides,  branching  horns,  and  magnificent, 
meditative  eyes.  Here  and  there  larks  rose  singing 
from  the  poppy  starred  wheat-fields  and  soared  up 
into  the  infinite  blue  above  us. 

From  the  clear  purity  of  the  morning  without  the 
walls  we  drove  back  into  the  stir  and  noise  of  Rome 
just  beginning  its  day.  Once  more  we  passed  by 
the  Arch  of  Constantine  and  the  CoHseum,  and  saw 
in  the  distance  the  pillars  of  the  Forum.  Then  Fiha 
bade  the  cocchiere  drive  home  by  the  Fountain  of 
Trevi,  where  we  stopped. 

"  Yes,"  I  remarked,  gazing  at  the  highly  allegori- 
cal and  fantastic  front,  "I  see  and  I  have  seen  it 
frequently.  It  is  bad  art,  thrice  dead  Renaissance, 
done  by  a  follower  of  Bernini  '  gone  mad  in  marble,' 
as  Hawthorne  says.  Why  do  you  wish  to  look  at 
it  again?  " 

Filia,  who  had  now  alighted  from  the  carozza,  called 
back: 

"  I  am  not  looking  at  it,  I  am  taking  a  last  draught 
of  it  from  my  Sorrento  cup,  and  I  am  about  to  throw 
a  soldo  into  the  basin  to  make  sure  that  I  return  to 
Rome." 

This  ritual  of  the  traveller  completed,  we  drove 
home  by  way  of  the  Quirinal  for  a  last  look  at  the 


APPIAN  WAY. 


White  and  Black  149 

statues  of  the  Obelisk,  the  Dioscuri  with  their  horses, 
which  may  be  counterfeits  of  Phidias  but  are  no 
doubt  thriUing  and  stirring  figures  and  finely  placed. 
In  the  afternoon,  according  to  an  earher  agree- 
ment, we  met  Cousin  Lucretia's  artist  friend  in  the 
Carthusian  Cloisters  of  the  Thermae  of  Diocletian. 
While  I  strolled  alone  for  a  little  space  in  the  lovely 
courtyard,  filled  with  roses,  the  strange  irony  of 
juxtaposition  smote  upon  me  poignantly.  Here  were 
two  twentieth-century,  Protestant,  American  women 
asked  in  most  casual  fashion,  in  the  city  of  Rome,  to 
meet  a  friend  in  the  Sixteenth-century  Carthusian 
Cloisters,  founded  by  Pope  Pius  IV,  laid  out  by 
Michelangelo  within  the  enclosure  of  the  Baths  of 
Diocletian!  The  vast  Thermae,  the  largest  in  Rome, 
were  built  for  the  Emperor  by  40,000  Christian 
workmen,  for  in  the  year  302  Rome  was  obscurely, 
but  surely,  thronged  with  followers  of  the  Nazarene. 
The  Emperor,  in  the  years  immediately  following 
this  particular  building  operation,  began  an  eight- 
year-long  persecution  of  his  Christian  subjects, 
which,  in  fury  and  extent,  exceeded  all  persecutions 
which  had  gone  before.  But  it  was  the  last,  for  in 
the  following  year  Constantine  had  his  historic 
heavenly  vision  of  the  luminous  cross  seen  at  mid- 
day. And  so  wdthin  the  walls  of  the  great  Thermae 
of  the  Church's  arch-persecutor,  the  Renaissance 
pontiff  built  his  Christian  monastery.    In  the  nine- 


150  The  Spell  of  Italy 

teenth  century  the  Italian  government,  still  Christian, 
suppresses  the  monastery  and  the  cloisters  are  fiUed 
with  memorials  of  pagan  rites  and  divinities,  some 
of  which  antedate  Diocletian  by  a  thousand  years. 
And  Protestant  Americans  of  the  twentieth  century 
make  pilgrimage  to  gaze  at  and  to  grasp  what  they 
may  of  the  mordant  satires  of  Time. 

"  This  is  Rome  indeed,"  I  thought.  "  And  what 
am  I,  insignificant,  to  snatch  for  my  own  the  spoils 
of  the  ages  after  this  sort?  " 

A  few  moments  later  I  looked  about  me  in  the 
midst  of  the  Museo  Boncompagni,  still  within  the 
Cloisters  of  Michelangelo,  and  saw  the  colossal  group 
of  the  first  Pergamenian  School,  —  the  Gaul  slaying 
his  wife  with  his  own  hand  to  save  her  from  capture, 
—  the  glorious  Juno  Ludovisi  and  other  works  of 
authoritative  excellence,  brought  from  the  gardens  of 
Sallust.  Then  every  element  of  the  situation  was 
forgotten  save  that  splendour  of  classic  art.  In  an 
hour  we  left  the  museum  and  moved  on  to  another 
portion  of  the  Thermae  (its  vast  enclosure  has  been 
adapted  to  various  uses,  both  public  and  private), 
where  we  were  ushered  into  the  studio  of  Mr.  Moses 
Ezekiel,  one  of  the  foremost  of  American  sculptors, 
and  for  over  twenty  years  a  resident  of  Rome. 

Mr,  Ezekiel  is  a  Virginian  by  birth  and  has  been 
knighted  —  rare  honour  for  an  American !  —  by  the 
King  of  Italy.    He  received  much  of  his  training  in 


GAUL    SLAYING    HIS    WIFE,    MUSEO    BONCOMFAGNI,    ROME. 


White  and  Black  151 

Germany,  where  the  merits  of  his  bust  of  Washington 
admitted  him  to  the  Berhn  Society  of  Artists.  Among 
his  best  known  works  are  the  monument  to  Jefferson 
in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  his  portrait  bust  of  Mrs. 
White  at  Cornell  University,  his  symbolic  statue  of 
Religious  Liberty  in  Fairmount  Park,  Philadelphia, 
and  the  bust  of  Lord  Sherbrooke  in  St.  Margaret's 
Church,  Westminster.  From  the  artist  himself  we 
received  cordial  kindliness  of  greeting  and  his  per- 
sonahty  commanded  instant  interest,  —  a  genius 
unmistakably  and  an  intelligence  of  the  highest 
order  as  well.  All  about  us  in  the  studio  was  recent 
work,  both  completed  and  in  process.  The  American 
type  of  ideal  female  beauty  which  Ezekiel  has  es- 
tablished made  us  glad  to  be  American,  it  is  so 
essentially  spirited,  so  proudly  and  nobly  beautiful. 
Statues  of  convincing  distinction  delighted  our  eyes, 
and  that  when  we  had  come  straight  from  those 
immortal  antiques!  Most  impressive  was  a  seated 
figure  of  Napoleon,  recently  completed. 

From  the  working  studio  we  were  presently  con- 
ducted for  the  recital  of  chamber  music,  by  an  outer 
stair,  to  Mr.  Ezekiel's  bachelor  apartment,  still 
within  the  Thermae,  and,  we  were  told,  the  oldest 
roofed  building  in  Rome.  This  stairway  was  cov- 
ered by  a  network  of  close  vines,  among  which  white 
pigeons  flew  about  with  their  peaceful,  melodious 
gurring.       We    now    entered    a    vast    and    vaulted 


152  The  Spell  of  Italy 

chamber,  almost,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  large  as  the 
Sistine  Chapel  and  conveying  in  its  proportions  an 
effect  of  imposing   stateliness. 

Across  one  side  of  this  room  ran  a  gallery;  above 
this  the  one  enormous  window,  heavily  curtained, 
occupying  the  entire  wall  space.  Seated  soon  in  a 
carved  and  canopied  arm  chair  I  looked  about. 
The  distant  spaces  of  the  room  were  almost  lost  in 
the  mellow  dusk  which  filled  it,  but  about  me  I  could 
discern  an  infinite  variety  of  bronzes,  antiques,  curios, 
tapestries,  pictures,  and  carvings.  Candles  in  sculp- 
tured candelabra  and  antique  lamps  were  lighted 
here  and  there.  Soon  I  began  to  observe  the  people 
who  were  gathering  in  numbers  and  who,  as  our 
escort  pointed  out  one  and  another,  proved  almost 
as  interesting  as  the  place. 

An  exquisite  brune  beauty  in  white  with  a  broad 
white  plumed  hat  was  the  daughter  of  Edward  La- 
bouchere;  with  her  was  the  Princess  Radziwill;  very 
distingue  were  Mrs.  Marion  Crawford  and  her  daugh- 
ters; consuls,  litterateurs,  virtuosi,  artists,  abounded. 
Many  persons  came  in  after  the  music  began,  but 
these  received  scant  welcome  from  Mr.  Ezekiel,  who 
within  his  section  of  the  old  imperial  domain  is  him- 
self an  imperator.  Absolute  stillness  was  even 
sharply  imposed,  and  we  all  listened  in  a  species  of 
enchantment  to  the  Beethoven  symphonies  rendered 
by  three  violins,  a  cello,  and  piano.    It  seemed  the 


White  and  Black  153 

soul  rather  than  the  body  of  music.  During  the  four 
movements,  between  which  were  short  intervals,  a 
few  enthusiasts  gathered  in  the  middle  of  the  great 
room  about  the  performers  as  if  drawn  by  an  irre- 
sistible magnet,  bending  double,  staring  at  the  score 
enraptured,  their  ardent,  dark,  mobile  faces  in  the 
candle-hght  making  a  Rembrandt  tableau  vi- 
vante. 

When  the  last  strains  died  away  I  found  Contessa 
Carletti  crossing  to  my  side  with  affectionate  welcome. 
We  must  come  with  her  and  be  introduced  to  the 
hostess  of  the  afternoon,  Signora  Liliana  De  Bosis. 
Butlers  were  bringing  in  trays  and  the  tea  equipage 
was  arranged  upon  a  massive  carved  table  at  the 
top  of  the  room.  Standing  behind  the  tea  urn  the 
Signora  De  Bosis,  herself  American-born,  a  gracious 
woman,  wife  of  the  distinguished  poet  and  trans- 
later  De  Bosis,  did  the  honours  while  young  girl 
guests,  as  in  hke  functions  in  England  and  America, 
assisted  her  in  serving.  We  met  in  succession  titled 
German,  French,  and  Italian  folk  and  birds  of  pas- 
sage from  America  like  ourselves,  but  especially 
attractive  we  found  certain  members  of  the  American 
colony  in  Rome.  Among  these,  eminent  by  reason 
of  long  residence,  but  more  for  personal  charm, 
literary  distinction,  and  religious  devotion  to  the 
Italian  people,  were  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Whittinghill  and 
Miss  Argyle-Taylor,  well  known  to  readers  of  the 


154  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Atlantic  Monthly  through  her  lovely  sketches  of 
things  Itahan. 

It  was  time  to  go,  and  I  turned  for  a  last  word, 
before  parting,  with  Contessa  Carletti.  I  found  her, 
with  FiHa,  in  a  group  of  brilliant  persons  who  were 
earnestly  discussing  the  pohtical  aspects  of  Fogaz- 
zaro's  "  II  Santo." 

The  Contessa  turned  quickly,  smihng  her  luminous 
smile  to  me. 

"  It  is  really  growing  very  late,  is  it  not?  "  she 
said;  "  but  I  have  still  something  quite  interesting 
—  I  hope  —  to  say." 

"  And  so  have  I,  and  to  do,"  I  rephed.  "  The 
manuscript  of  *  Vertu  in  Rilevo  '  was  safely  delivered 
at  noon  and  now  lies  neatly  packed  in  my  portfolio, 
waiting  for  Perugia  and  the  golden  moment  when  we 
can  read  it." 

"  That  is  very  nice,"  she  said  naively;  "  and  you 
must  hke  it  —  a  little  —  for  my  sake.  But  I  want 
to  tell  you  that  there  is  to  my  joy  a  chance  that  we 
may  yet  meet  again  before  you  leave  Italy,  for  we 
have  decided  to  go  to  Lucca,  to  the  Bagni  di  Lucca 
that  is,  in  August.  You  are  to  be  in  the  north;  then 
why  can  you  not  also  come  there?  You  have  no 
notion  how  beautiful  Tuscany  is,  and  at  Bagni  we 
have  the  finest  physician!  One  can  get  rid  of  every 
ill  I  assure  you,  for  a  year.  He  is  in  Rome  for  a  little 
and  chances  to  be  here  to-day.    Do  you  see  that  fine, 


White  and  Black  155 

fair  man  with  the  ironical  crest  on  the  wave  of  his 
earnestness?  He  is  speaking  at  the  moment  to  your 
daughter?    That  is  Doctor  Giorgi." 

"  I  shall  undoubtedly  go  to  Bagni!  The  array  of 
attractions  is  irresistible.  Not  that  I  ever  heard  of 
the  place." 

"  Oh,  pardon  me,  but  you  must  have  done  that 
and  forgotten.  Shelley  and  Byron  and  Montaigne 
and  the  Brownings  —  " 

"  Oh,  of  course !  I  do  remember.  It  never  had 
the  note  of  reality  before.  You  speak  as  if  it  were 
Saratoga  or  Lake  wood." 

"  The  note  of  reality !  I  hke  the  phrase.  I  apply  it 
to  my  story,  *  Vertu  in  Rilevo,'  Will  you  promise 
me  not  to  read  the  thing  until  you  have  been  in 
Perugia  days  enough  to  impart  to  it  this  note  of 
reaUty,  —  until  you  have  seen  the  San  Bernardino, 
the  Via  Appia?  " 

"  Is  there  then  a  Via  Appia  in  Perugia  also?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  by  all  means.  And  thereby  hangs  the  tale." 

On  the  homeward  way  we  drove  for  a  little  on  the 
terrace  of  the  Pincian  for  one  last  look  over  Rome. 
In  his  "  Monte  Mario  "  Carducci  gives  the  impression 
of  the  moment: 

**  Cypresses  solemn  stand  on  Monte  Mario, 
Luminous,  quiet  is  the  air  around  them, 
They  watch  the  Tiber  through  the  misty  meadows 

Wandering  voiceless. 


156  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  They  gaze  beneath  them  where,  a  silent  city, 
Rome  lies  extended  ;  like  a  giant  shepherd 
O'er  flocks  unnumbered  vigilant  and  watchful, 

Rises  St.  Peter's." 


X 

AUGUSTA  PERUSIA 

[  ]\IAGINE  a  rock  in  the  midst  of  a  melan- 
choly valley,  and  on  the  top  of  the  rock 
a  city  so  deathly  silent  as  to  give  the 
impression  of  being  uninhabited — every 
window  closed  —  grass  growing  in  the  dusty  gray 
streets  —  a  Capuchin  friar  crosses  the  Piazza  —  a 
priest  descends  from  a  closed  carriage  in  front  of 
a  hospital,  all  in  black  and  with  a  decrepit  old 
servant  to  open  the  door;  here  a  tower  against 
the  white,  rain-sodden  clouds  —  there  a  clock  slowly 
striking  the  hour,  and  suddenly,  at  the  end  of  a  street, 
a  miracle  —  the  Duomo." 

Thus  writes  Gabriele  d'Annunzio  of  Orvieto,  which 
as  we  first  caught  sight  of  it  on  its  skyey  crest  seemed 
a  city  coming  down  out  of  heaven,  shining  and 
glorious.  On  nearer  approach  the  glory  departed, 
giving  place  to  a  sense  of  forbidding  gloom.  The 
impression  of  desolation  peculiar  to  Or\ieto  (it  was 
one  of  the  Twelve  of  Etruria  and  so  of  highest  an- 
tiquity) could  not  be   more   keenly  given   than   in 

157 


158  The  Spell  of  Italy 

D'Annunzio's  description.  But  then,  the  mediseval 
miracle  —  the  Duomo  —  is  only  the  more  miracu- 
lous for  its  setting. 

The  "  most  glorious  fagade  in  Italy,"  men  say; 
the  "  petrifaction  of  an  illuminated  missal,"  "  a 
wilderness  of  beauties,  on  every  square  inch  of  which 
have  been  lavished  invention,  skill,  and  precious 
material."  What  if  it  is  true  that  it  is  only  a  "  fron- 
tispiece," that  the  Duomo  itself  is  within  but  an  in- 
ferior church,  devoid  of  religious  greatness,  has  it  not 
the  frescoes  of  Fra  Angehco  and  of  Luca  SignorelU 
to  glorify  its  walls? 

Dennis  advises  the  traveller  to  omit  what  places 
he  will  between  Florence  and  Rome  but  yield  to  the 
urgent  demand  of  Orvieto's  cathedral.  Not  too 
vividly  does  he  praise  the  "  tenderness  and  celestial 
radiancy  of  Fra  Angelico's  work,"  or  the  glories  of 
composition,  the  boldness,  and  awful  grandeur  of 
Signorelli's. 

Nothing  could  exceed,  short  of  Buonarotti  himself, 
the  fierce,  concentrated  intensity  shown  in  the  Ful- 
minati;  it  is  not  difficult  to  believe  that  Buonarotti 
"  courteously  availed  himself  to  a  certain  extent  of 
the  inventions  "  of  SignorelH  in  his  treatment  of  the 
Sistine  Chapel.  Perhaps  the  average  wayfarer  fails 
to  comprehend  either  giant  and  prefers  to  leave  that 
task  to  the  critic,  but  even  Filia  and  I  could  wonder 
why  we  had  heard  so  little  of  Signorelli,  and  why 


Augusta  Perusia  159 

travellers  stop  so  seldom  at  Orvieto.  We  felt  that 
the  work  of  the  native  Scalza  alone  would  justify  a 
visit,  his  beautiful  Pieta  being  worthy  to  group  with 
Buonarotti's  Pieta  in  St.  Peter's  and  with  that  of 
Bernini  in  the  subterranean  chapel  of  the  Lateran. 
But  nothing  within  appealed  to  us  with  the  bewilder- 
ing charm  of  the  cathedral's  facade,  before  wliich  we 
lingered  until  we  lost  our  train  for  Perugia,  so  reach- 
ing that  city  late  and  weary  that  night.  The  ivory 
tinted  marble  set  richly  with  gem-like  mosaics,  the 
endless  intricacies  of  sculpture,  the  lovely  bas-reliefs 
of  Nicola  Pisano  which  have  been  the  study  of  Duccio 
and  Giotto,  Signorelli  and  Raphael,  all  confronted  us 
with  a  purity  and  delicate  perfection  which  made  it 
incredible  that  they  belonged  to  Dante's  decades. 
And  the  consummate  whole  seemed  greater  far  than 
the  sum  of  all  its  parts. 

Fresh  as  we  were  from  the  celebration  of  Corpus 
Christi  Day  in  Rome,  we  found  peculiar  interest  in 
the  fact  that  the  Orvieto  Cathedral  was  built  to 
commemorate  the  "  Miracle  of  Bolsena,"  with  which 
is  associated  the  observance  of  the  Festival  of  Corpus 
Christi.  In  the  hours  during  which  we  waited  in 
the  Hotel  Belle  Arti  for  an  afternoon  train  by  which 
to  proceed  on  our  journey  we  read  the  story  as  given 
by  a  sympathetic  writer,'^  I  will  here  reproduce  it  in 
condensed  form. 

» Edward  Hutton  in  "The  Cities  of  Umbria." 


160  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  The  miracle  of  Bolscna,  which  the  Cathedral  of 
Orvieto  was  built  to  commemorate,  happened  in  this 
wise.  Raphael  with  his  profound  and  scholarly  in- 
sight has  painted  it,  as  it  is  supposed,  opposite  to  the 
'  School  of  Athens  '  in  the  Vatican.  A  certain  Ger- 
man priest  had  presumed  to  doubt  in  the  little  town 
of  Orvieto  the  doctrine  of  the  Real  Presence  of  Our 
Lord  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  Weary  of  his  doubts 
he  set  out  for  Rome,  so  that  there,  in  the  capital  of 
his  religion,  he  might  decide  at  last.  Having  set  out 
for  Rome  he  was  resting  one  day  on  the  shores  of  the 
beautiful  lake  of  Bolsena.  At  the  request  of  the 
villagers  he  celebrated  a  Mass  for  them  in  the  church 
of  Santa  Christina,  *  which  is  with  us  even  to  this 
day.' 

"  As  our  German  doubter  (Raphael  says  he  was 
but  a  lad)  elevated  the  Host,  more  than  ever  troubled 
in  his  mind  concerning  the  doctrine,  he  saw  drops  of 
red  blood  upon  the  Corporal,  *  each  stain  severally 
assuming  the  form  of  a  human  head  with  features 
like  the  Volto  Santo,  a  portrait  of  our  Saviour.' 
What  shame  in  his  heart,  what  anger  at  his  doubts, 
what  love,  what  certainty,  what  gladness!  Overcome 
by  fear  and  reverence,  he,  sinner  that  he  was,  dared 
not  consume  the  Holy  Species;  but  with  eagerness, 
with  love,  reserved  the  Body  of  Our  Lord,  and 
traveUing  in  haste  to  Orvieto,  where  the  Pope  then 
was,  he,  not  without  shame,  confessed  to  him  not 


OKVIKTU    CATHKDKAL. 


Augusta  Perusia  161 

only  the  miracle,  but  his  doubts  also.  At  the  com- 
mand of  the  Pope  the  Sacred  Host  and  the  Blessed 
Corporal  were  brought  from  the  church  at  Bolsena, 
and  Urban  IV  himself,  with  all  his  clergy,  passed  in 
procession  with  joy  and  music  to  meet  the  bishop 
who  brought  them.  They  rest  to-day  in  the  cathedral, 
in  the  Cappella  del  Corporale.  The  cathedral  was 
erected  in  memory  of  the  miracle  by  Urban,  who  in 
1264  had  promulgated  by  a  bull  the  observance  of  the 
Corpus  Christi  Festival  in  connection  with  his  strong 
desire  to  emphasize  the  doctrine  of  the  Real  Presence. 
"  Truth  or  lie,"  continues  Mr.  Hutton,  "  or  what 
you  will,  the  miracle  of  Bolsena  has  built  the  Cathe- 
dral of  Orvieto;  nor  is  there  anything  more  marvel- 
lous upon  earth.  Fra  Angelico  did  not  hesitate  to 
spend  his  genius  on  her  walls.  Signorelh,  who  is  so 
much  greater  than  his  fame,  in  1499  began  to  paint 
the  vaulting  and  the  waUs;  and  amid  all  the  mag- 
nificence and  richness  of  the  work  around  one,  it  is 
again  and  again  to  his  work  that  the  traveller  will 
return  —  always  with  joy.  .  .  ,  And  in  the  Cappella 
del  Corporale  how  magnificent  is  the  casket  which 
holds  the  blood-stained  Corporal  —  perhaps  the 
finest  example  in  Italy  of  mediaeval  goldsmith's 
work." 

The  next  morning  we  awoke  in  Umbria  and  awoke 
to  Umbria,  a  glorious  awakening.    From  our  windows 


162  The  Spell  of  Italy 

in  the  Brufani  we  looked  out  over  the  Tiber  Valley, 
the  undulating  plain,  green  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord, 
at  the  violet  hills,  and,  scattered  on  the  hill  tops,  the 
cragged  walls  of  mediaeval  towns.  And  one  of  those 
distant,  hoary  cities  might  be  the  shrine  of  St.  Francis, 
Assisi.  This  thought  and  the  sweet  yet  thrilHng 
nobleness  of  the  landscape  quickened  feeling  to  keen 
emotion.  This  was  Umbria,  word  of  nameless  charm; 
this  was  the  world  in  which  Francis  Bernadone  once 
lived  and  loved,  laboured  and  "  went  to  meet  death 
singing."  Here,  even  here,  in  a  Perugia  prison,  the 
legend  says  he  first  had  thoughts  of  God. 

Breakfast  over  we  hastened  to  the  Corso,  whose 
proportions,  we  being  new  come  from  Rome,  we  found 
amusing,  thence  explored  the  Via  BagHoni  and  came 
by  an  inevitable  Via  Garibaldi  to  the  Piazza  di  San 
Lorenzo.  Here  we  first  of  all  turned  with  eagerness 
to  find  on  the  fagade  of  the  Palazzo  Pubblico  the 
"  lean  ferocity  of  feudal  heraldry,"  —  the  bronze 
grifSn  and  the  bronze  Hon  of  Perugia  and  the  Guelphs. 
There,  in  sun  and  wind  and  weather  the  stern  old 
brazen  beasts  have  stood  guard  since  1308,  above 
the  entrance  where,  in  that  century,  the  Priori  and 
Podesta  were  wont  to  pass  in  and  out  with  pomp  of 
ceremonious  procession.  They  look  down  upon  the 
beautiful  fountain,  older  yet  than  they,  —  "  dear  as 
the  apple  of  their  eye  to  the  people  of  Perugia." 
This  fountain  of  Fra  Bevignate  was  perfected  by 


Augusta  Perusia  163 

Arnolfo  di  Lapo  and  by  the  great  master,  Nicola 
Pisano,  whose  sculpture  we  had  first  found  out  but 
yesterday  at  Orvieto,  by  actual  sight.  And  beyond  the 
fountain  rises  for  background  the  brown  and  bruised 
fagade  of  San  Lorenzo,  facing  down  into  the 
Piazza. 

It  seemed  to  me  then,  and  looking  back  now  when 
Florence  and  Siena,  Verona  and  Pisa  have  been 
visited,  that  there  is  not  in  Italy  a  spot  more  sternly, 
profoundly  feudal  and  mediaeval  in  its  expression 
than  that  centre  of  Perugia.  The  date  1200  can 
serve  as  the  keynote  to  the  scene,  the  age  of  "  fero- 
cious broods  of  heroic  ruffians,"  of  the  perpetual  war 
of  town  with  town,  of  fierce  civic  independence,  of 
harsh  austerities  of  life  and  action.  Later  come  the 
Rise  of  Despots  and  the  Rise  of  Art.  Mystic  Religion 
has  already  risen  beyond  the  Umbrian  plain,  in 
Assisi,  but  its  rays  do  not  soften  the  bare,  repellent 
contours  of  the  Perugian  Piazza  and  of  the  Duomo. 
The  place  is  grim;  the  heraldic  creatures  are  of 
savage  aspect ;  the  fountain  is  beautiful  but  strangely 
dolorous;  the  naked  brickwork  of  cathedral  and 
Palazzo  is  scarred  and  battered  and  stained  with 
stains  suggesting  blood.  But  as  we  turned  to  study 
more  intimately  the  detail  of  San  Lorenzo,  two 
things,  which  in  the  ensemble  had  escaped  us,  spoke 
with  a  gentler  voice.  Behind  us  from  its  pedestal 
the    bronze    statue    of  il  Papa,  Juhus  III  (1556), 


164  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

looked  down  in  serene  benediction,  and  close  at 
hand,  in  the  cathedral  wall,  was  the  small  pulpit 
from  which  about  the  year  1430  the  Franciscan, 
San  Bernardino,  preached  repentance,  forgiveness, 
and  peace  to  them  of  Perugia,  and  saw,  as  after  him 
Savonarola,  a  pyramid  of  vanities  burn  at  his  bidding. 
Even  in  this  stern  square,  then,  the  Renaissance  and 
the  Order  of  Francis  have  their  voice!  Then  enter- 
ing, first  the  Duomo  and  afterwards  the  Palazzo,  we 
found  behind  their  severe,  repellent  walls  the  very 
sunrise  of  Umbrian  art,  —  ecstatic,  mystical,  radiant 
with  the  Beatific  Vision. 

But  the  study  of  pictures  we  left  for  to-morrow; 
for  to-day  we  must  see  Perugia  itself.  Our  explora- 
tions took  us  through  the  Canonica,  "  the  Vatican 
of  Perugia."  Although  bare  and  empty  of  aspect 
now,  we  found  that  it  had  some  right  to  this  pre- 
tentious title,  since  it  has  been  the  residence  of  the 
Popes  on  numerous  visits  to  Perugia,  beginning  in 
1216  when  Innocent  III  died  there  on  his  way  to 
Pisa.  "  No  sooner,"  says  Miss  Duff  Gordon,  "  had  the 
Pope  breathed  his  last  than  all  his  Cardinals  hurried 
into  the  Canonica  to  elect  his  successor,  and  such 
was  the  impatience  of  the  citizens  that  they  even 
set  a  guard  over  these  princes  of  the  Church,  and 
kept  them  short  of  food  in  order  to  hurry  their  de- 
cision. We  are  not  therefore  surprised  to  read  that 
the  Papal  Throne  remained  vacant  for  the  space  of 


Augusta  Perusia  165 

one  day  only,  and  that  in  consequence  of  this  event 
the  Perugians  claim  the  privilege  of  having  invented 
the  Conclave." 

There  have  been  five  Conclaves  in  the  Canonica,  and 
three  Popes  have  died  in  Perugia.  Later  we  saw  in 
the  transept  of  the  Cathedral  the  porphyry  urn  which 
holds  their  ashes;  they  were  Innocent  III,  Urban  IV, 
and  Martin  IV. 

A  modern  link  is  added  to  the  chain  binding 
Perugia  to  the  Papacy.  In  July,  1846,  Joachim 
Pecci,  having  been  proclaimed  Archbishop  of  Perugia, 
made  solemn  entry  into  the  city  and  Cathedral.  He 
had  first  performed  liis  personal  devotions  within  the 
sanctuary  of  the  Portiuncula  at  Assisi,  and  had 
chosen  the  twenty-sixth  of  July,  the  Feast  of  St. 
Anne,  as  the  day  of  his  entrance  upon  his  see.  Sixty 
thousand  people,  one  hears,  assembled  to  meet  the 
young  prelate  with  royal  honours  and  join  in  the  cele- 
bration. Monsignor  Pecci  entered  upon  the  labours 
of  his  office  with  zeal,  especially  elevating  to  foremost 
rank  the  Seminary  of  Perugia.  He  faced  with  cour- 
age the  stormy  times  wliich  followed  the  year  1846. 
Mindful  of  his  services  to  the  Church,  Pius  IX  in 
1853  bestowed  the  honour  of  the  sacred  purple 
upon  him,  according  to  an  informal  promise  of  his 
predecessor  in  the  pontificate.  Again  all  Perugia 
and  all  surrounding  Umbria  joined  in  an  exultant 
festival  in  honour  of  the  new  Cardinal,  and  the  popu- 


166  The  Spell  of  Italy 

lar  heart  was  flattered  and  thrilled  by  this  exaltation 
of  the  revered  "  pastor." 

Twenty-five  years  later,  the  Conclave  being  as- 
sembled in  Rome  for  the  election  of  a  successor  to 
Pius  IX,  a  solenm  high  mass  pro  eligendo  Summo 
Pontifice  was  celebrated  in  the  Cathedral  of  San 
Lorenzo,  Cardinal  Archbishop  Pecci  himself  being 
absent  in  attendance  on  the  Conclave.  While  the 
Perugian  congregation  was  calling  down  upon  the 
electors  the  light  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  in  Rome  the 
Papal  cross  had  appeared  in  the  loggia  of  St.  Peter's, 
and  Cardinal  Catterini,  head  of  the  Order  of  Deacons, 
had  made  proclamation  as  follows: 

"  I  announce  to  you  tidings  of  great  joy.  We  have 
a  Pope,  the  most  Eminent  and  Most  Reverend 
Joachim  Pecci,  Cardinal  Priest  of  the  title  of  St. 
Chrysogonus,  who  hath  given  himself  for  name  Leo 
XIII." 

Soon  after  noon  the  tidings  reached  Perugia  by 
official  telegram.  The  city  received  it  with  "  in- 
credible joy;  "  tears  filled  the  eyes  of  persons  of 
every  rank,  all  the  bells  were  rung  and  all  the  houses 
illuminated.  And  so  it  was  that  Leo  XIII  may  be 
called  a  Perugian  Pope. 

Leaving  the  Canonica  we  strayed  aimlessly  through 
narrow  passages  and  arches  of  massive  masonry  be- 
longing to  the  Maesta  dclle  Volte.  Then,  unex- 
pectedly we  came  upon  a  street  named  the  Via  Appia, 


Augusta  Perusia  167 

framed  in  by  one  deep  and  lofty  arch  beyond  which 
it  sprang  out  Hke  the  leap  of  a  waterfall  into  the 
open  below.  Looking  down  we  saw  an  aqueduct 
rise  from  the  descending  thoroughfare  and  stretch 
into  the  distance  on  an  aerial  plane,  with  curiously 
picturesque  effect. 

"  This  must  be  the  street  Contessa  Carletti  men- 
tioned," said  Fiha;  "  do  you  not  remember  her 
speaking  of  the  Via  Appia  as  connected  with  her 
story  '  Vertu  in  Rilevo  '?  " 

"  I  do  not  wonder  that  she  found  a  story  here,"  I 
returned.  "  Have  you  ever  seen  a  more  utterly 
unique  bit  of  Middle  Age  construction?  " 

"  Middle  Age,  you  say?  "  asked  Fiha  deep  in  her 
guide-book.  "  The  entrance  to  the  Via  Appia  is 
through  the  original  Etruscan  wall  of  ancient  Perusia ! 
No  mediaeval  novelty  this!  How  cheerful  to  find 
'  Etruscany  '  so  sudden-like  and  natural !  Listen  if 
you  will :  '  On  the  west  of  the  city  the  Etruscan  walls 
may  be  traced  for  a  long  distance,  rising  to  the 
height  of  thirty  feet,  composed  of  travertine,  .  .  . 
etc.,  etc.  You  meet  them  again  on  the  height  above 
the  Church  of  San  Francesco,  from  which  point  they 
continue  to  follow  the  line  of  the  high  ground,  be- 
neath the  houses  of  the  city  in  a  serpentine  course, 
eastward  to  the  Via  Appia,  below  the  Cathedral, 
and  then  northward  round  to  the  Porta  Augusta.' 
Then  a  little  farther  on :  '  Afterwards  you  meet  them 


168  The  Spell  of  Italy 

again  on  the  south  of  the  city  at  the  Porta  San 
Ercolano.  Here  is  a  portion  forty  or  fifty  feet  high, 
in  courses  of  eighteen  inches,  very  neatly  joined  — 
the  most  massive  masonry  in  Perugia,'  " 

"  By  all  means  let  us  proceed  to  the  Porta  Augusta 
and  the  Porta  San  Ercolano!  "  I  exclaimed.  "  I  am 
more  interested  than  I  can  tell  in  these  remains  of 
Etruscan  civilization.  How  modern  they  make 
everything  else  seem." 

Taking  the  Via  Vecchio  we  hastened  to  the  Piazza 
Fortebraccio  and  stood  to  gaze  at  the  majestic  city 
gate  towering  above  us,  the  inscription  "  Augusta 
Perusia"  (AVGVSTA  PERVSIA)  above  the  arch 
speaking  of  Imperial  Rome.  The  foundations  are 
Etruscan  and  as  massive  as  primitive  rock. 

"  The  Contessa  told  us  that  we  would  find  Perugia 
Italy  in  miniature,"  quoth  Filia  after  we  had  gazed 
at  this  impressive  memorial  in  silence  for  a  httle 
space.  ''We  can  see  that  already:  those  founda- 
tions belong  to  Tribal  Italy;  the  superstructure  of 
the  arch  is  of  Roman  Italy;  San  Ercolano,  whose 
church  we  have  not  seen  yet,  belongs  to  the  period 
of  Gothic  Invasion;  the  Palazzo  PubbUco,  with  the 
Griffin  and  the  Lion,  gave  us  the  rise  of  the  Free 
Cities;  the  Baglioni  feuds  are  told  on  every  side,  and 
they  mean  the  Rise  of  the  Despots." 

"  You  can  carry  it  on  still  farther,"  I  said,  "  for 
in  the  beginning  of  Cardinal  Pecci's  archbishopric 


Augusta  Perusia  169 

here  Perugia  was  the  possession  of  the  Papal  States, 
and  when  he  left  to  become  Pope  Leo  XIII  it  was  an 
Italian  city." 

"  It  is  one  of  the  Hundred,"  said  Filia,  nodding 
wisely,  "  the  famous  Hundred  of  Italy." 

"  And  when  first  heard  of  it  was  one  of  the  Twelve, 
one  of  the  '  Heads  of  Etruria.'  I  consider  that  at 
once  interesting,  important,  and  mnemonic." 

On  our  walk  home  to  the  Brufani  we  sought  out 
the  arch  in  the  Etruscan  Wall  adjoining  the  pic- 
turesque Gothic  Church  of  San  Ercolano,  the  saint 
who  was  martyred  by  the  Goths  in  549. 

"This  church's  date,  my  dear  Filia,  is  1200,"  I 
remarked;  "and  the  present  hour  is  twelve  M. 
Both  dates,  to  me,  are  satisfactory  and  famihar.  You 
are  hungry;  I  am  tired;  the  heat  smites  amain. 
Let  us  climb  up  that  fascinating  stair,  through  the 
Porta  Ercolano,  so  to  the  Via  Baglioni,  the  Piazza 
Vittorio  Emanuele,  to  the  hotel  and  our  cool  and 
darkened  chamber.  But  what  a  morning  it  has  been ! 
Perugia,  beyond  a  doubt,  is  the  epitome  of  all  Italy." 

"  And  yet  what  a  rest  after  Rome,"  returned 
Fiha.  "  Do  you  not  feel  that  you  shall  for  ever  love 
Umbria?  The  very  sound  of  the  word  suggests  a 
cool,  serene,  and  shaded  peace." 

We  stood  on  the  ramparts  by  the  Prefettura,  and 
as  we  looked  over  the  mighty  landscape  the  fitness  of 
Filia's  words  declared  itself. 


170  The  Spell  of  Italy 

That  afternoon,  after  the  long  siesta  without  which 
summer  travel  in  Italy  should  not  be  thought  of, 
we  met  a  number  of  interesting  travellers  taking 
afternoon  tea  in  the  palm-shaded  central  court  of  the 
hotel.  Then  and  in  like  hours  which  followed,  I 
gathered  a  Uttle  store  of  travellers'  truisms  for 
Perugia  which  I  will  here  record. 

It  is  enacted  that  — 

Feudal  history  is  intensely  complicated  and  few 
there  be  that  find  their  way  in  it.     The  heads  of 
enemies  impaled  on  spikes  appear  to  constitute  the  . 
cheerful  keynote. 

That  the  BagUoni  were  the  wildest  of  despots  and 
Perugia  the  bloodiest  town  in  Italy  in  the  Middle  Age. 

That  John  Addington  Symonds  has  given  an  in- 
comparable study  of  the  Baglioni  in  his  "  Sketches  in 
Italy." 

That  Perugino  is  in  the  history  of  art  vastly  im- 
portant, but  in  effect  often  mannered  and  insipid 
and  personally  an  atheist  and  avaricious. 

That  young  Raphael  was  painting  here  in  the 
studio  of  Perugino  in  the  last  days  of  the  fifteenth 
century. 

That  Grifonetto  Baglioni  was  a  contemporaiy  of 
Raphael  and  beautiful  as  a  young  god  but  treacher- 
ous; he  was  the  model,  supposedly,  for  a  figure  in 
Raphael's  Entombment  now  in  the  Villa  Borghese. 

That  one  cannot  see  Perugia's  lake,  that  classic 


Augusta  Perusia  171 

sheet  of  water,  "  reedy  Thrasymene,"  from  Perugia 
because  of  a  ridge  lying  between. 

That  the  lean  lion  and  the  rampant  griffin  of 
Perugia  are  on  every  piece  of  paper  and  scrap  of 
pottery  or  metal  one  can  purchase,  but  that  the 
chains  of  Assisi  and  the  keys  of  Siena  are  no  longer 
in  their  grasp. 

That  the  phrases  Perusia  Etrusca  and  Perusia 
Romana,  or  Augusta,  are  well-worked  but  still  useful. 

That  the  five  city  gates,  the  Porta  Eburnea,  Porta 
Susanna,  Porta  Augusta,  Porta  Mandola,  and  Porta 
Marzio,  are  all  of  Etruscan  origin,  with  Roman  addi- 
tions. 

That  you  must  not  fail  to  have  the  sacristan  open 
the  curious  window  in  the  choir  of  San  Pietro  and 
give  you  the  wonderful  view  of  Assisi  and  the  world. 

That  a  week  at  the  Brufani  is  "  an  experience." 

That  there  is  sharp  rivalry  between  Siena  and  Peru- 
gia; that  they  are  not  far  apart,  but  that  the  stars 
in  their  courses  will  fight  against  you  if  you  tiy  to 
travel  from  the  one  to  the  other  "  across  lots."  It 
is  necessary  to  go  first  to  Florence  and  start  anew. 

That  the  San  Bernardino  Oratory  has  a  fagade  of 
mysterious  beauty  and  that  this  San  Bernardino  was 
a  saint  of  Siena,  a  Franciscan  prototype  of  Savonarola, 
little  famed  beyond  Siena  and  Perugia. 

That  you  will  surely  be  examined  as  to  whether  you 
have  observed  the   porte  del  mortuccio   in    the  Via 


172  The  Spell  of  Italy 

dei  Priori  and  the  lumieri  of  the  Palazzo  Pubblico. 
Item:  awake,  observe  or  be  for  ever  fallen! 

Our  second  morning  in  Perugia  was  given  to  the 
Cambio  and  the  Pinacoteca.  I  would  advise  any 
one  who  reads  this  record  of  a  traveller's  impressions, 
and  who  is  so  fortunate  as  to  visit  Perugia,  to  allow 
at  least  two  hours  for  the  study  of  the  decorations  of 
the  Cambio,  the  old  Hall  of  Syndics.  Here  Perugino, 
Raphael's  master,  may  be  seen  at  perhaps  his  best 
in  the  very  beautiful  frescoes  of  the  audience-chamber, 
while  close  at  hand  in  the  Magistrate's  chamber  are 
Renaissance  wood-carvings  of  exquisite  loveliness 
most  worthy  of  serious  study.  Nowhere  in  Italy  did 
we  see  wood  wrought  to  such  perfection  of  artistic 
expression  as  here  and  in  the  choir  of  San  Pietro, 
whose  stalls  are  said  to  have  been  carved  after  de- 
signs drawn  by  Raphael. 

From  the  secular  or  mingled  sacred  and  classic 
impressions  of  the  Cambio  we  plunged  into  endless 
vistas  of  purely  religious  art  in  the  Pinacoteca.  It 
was  a  new  world,  this  of  "  Art's  spring-birth  so  dim 
and  dewy,"  of  the  early  mystical  Umbrian  artists, 
the  preraphaeHtes,  who  painted  with  the  fervent 
realism  of  a  childlike  and  single-eyed  faith.  In  Rome 
we  had  seen  Christian  art  sumptuous,  ecclesiastical, 
full  of  the  revived  classicahsm  of  the  later  Renais- 
sance. Art  and  the  world  met  there  and  joined  hands 
as  had,  in  the  age  of  Constantine,  the  Empire  and  the 


Augusta  Perusia  173 

Church.  Here  in  the  brown  old  rooms  of  this  ancient 
Palazzo,  above  the  stern  and  isolated  Umbrian  town, 
we  saw  art  in  its  first  naive  simplicity.  These  men 
painted  their  Madonnas,  their  Saints,  their  Christs, 
with  awe  and  love  and  mighty  pity  in  their  hearts, 
and  the  spirit  of  pagan  Greece  was  not  akin  or  known 
to  them.  Continually  I  was  reminded  of  Rossetti's 
sonnet  beginning, 

"  Give  honour  unto  Luke  Evangelist ; 
For  he  it  was  (the  aged  legends  say) 
Who  first  taught  Art  to  fold  her  hands  and  pray." 

From  Alunno  and  Taddeo  Bartoli  to  Raphael, 
what  a  distance!  And  yet  by  way  of  Perugino, 
Fiorenzo  di  Lorenzo,  and  Pinturicchio  one  can  grope 
the  way  in  some  sort. 

Bonfigh,  a  distinctively  Perugian  painter,  inter- 
ested and  charmed  me.  The  sentiment,  poetic 
and  tender,  never  passionate,  of  his  pure,  delicate 
Virgins  and  his  pensive  angels  is  enthralling.  A 
feature  of  Umbrian  art  new  to  us,  especially  charac- 
teristic of  Bonfigh,  is  the  gonf alone  or  painted  banner. 
These  banners,  adorned  by  foremost  artists  with 
scenes  from  the  fives  of  saints  and  of  intercessions 
with  Madonna  and  Christ  for  the  welfare  of  the  city, 
were  carried  about  in  procession  in  times  of  pestilence, 
war,  or  other  common  calamity. 

But  nothing  after  all  in  the  Pinacoteca  defighted 


174  The  Spell  of  Italy 

us  as  did  the  Sala  dell'  Angelico.  Here  in  small 
panels  were  certain  of  Fra  Angelico's  exquisite 
angels  surrounding  Madonna  and  child.  I  enjoyed 
the  comment  of  M.  Taine  on  this  picture:  "The 
Virgin  is  candour  and  sweetness  itself.  .  .  .  Two 
angels  in  long  dresses  bring  their  roses  to  the  feet 
of  the  small  Christ  with  the  dreaming  eyes.  They  are 
so  young  yet  so  earnest."  We  had  seen  none  of  Fra 
Angelico's  easel  pictures  since  coming  to  Italy  and 
we  hailed  with  joy  this  foretaste  of  what  Florence 
held  for  us. 

It  was  something  of  a  discord  to  follow  Fra  An- 
gehco  with  the  pagan  spectres  of  an  Etruscan  tomb, 
but  we  did  it.  Luncheon,  however,  the  siesta,  and 
afternoon  tea  intervened.  Then,  when  the  shadows 
Were  growing  long  over  the  Tiber  Valley,  and  the 
keen  heat  of  the  day  was  spent,  we  drove  out  through 
the  Porta  Costanzo  to  the  south,  and  down  Perugia's 
hill  to  the  plain,  clothed  with  the  silver  green  of 
ohves  pricked  through  by  cypress  spires. 

Little  more  than  a  half-hour's  drive  brought  us  to 
the  entrance  to  the  Grotto,  or  Tomb  of  the  Volumnii. 
We  noted  with  interest  that  this  mysterious  memorial 
of  Primitive  Italy  had  been  discovered  on  the  estate 
of  the  BagHoni,  the  feudal  despots  of  Mediseval 
Perugia.  The  date  of  discovery  is  comparatively 
recent,  1840.  Descending  a  long  flight  of  steps  we 
entered  a  vaulted  chamber  out  of  which  opened  many 


MADONNA  OK  PEHUGIA,  BY  FRA  ANGELICO. 


Augusta  Perusia  175 

smaller  ones.  Around  this  chamber  ran  a  low  stone 
bench  on  which  we  sat  and  gazed  in  silence  around 
us.  The  sepulchre  is  not  of  "  highest  antiquity,"  be- 
longing to  the  third  century  before  Christ,  the  period 
of  the  Roman  Republic. 

By  the  light  of  a  torch  in  the  hand  of  an  attendant 
our  eyes  began  to  discern  strange,  aUen  shapes  sur- 
rounding us  on  the  walls  and  ceiling,  —  disks  enclos- 
ing colossal  faces,  half-vanishing  wings  of  enormous 
sweep,  heads  of  serpent  shape,  mighty  cimeters,  harps, 
and  also,  as  Filia  suggested,  harpies.  Dolphins, 
sphinxes.  Medusae,  grotesque  griffins  abound.  Here 
undoubtedly  was  the  origin  of  Perugia's  griflBn,  we 
perceived,  instinctively  delighted  at  having  tracked 
the  wild  beast  to  its  lair. 

Crossing  the  antechamber  we  seemed  to  enter 
the  actual  presence  of  the  Etruscan  family  for  whom 
the  tomb  was  builded.  Here  were  seven  large  white 
mortuary  urns  and  on  them  figures  of  men  and 
women  recumbent  or  seated.  Dennis  vividly  de- 
scribes them  thus:  "  Here  a  party  of  revellers,  each 
on  a  snow-white  couch,  with  garlanded  brow,  torque- 
decorated  neck,  and  goblet  in  hand,  lie  —  a  petri- 
faction of  conviviality  —  in  solemn  mockery  of  the 
pleasures  to  which  for  ages  on  ages  they  have  bidden 
adieu." 

The  Medusse,  so  marked  a  characteristic  of  all 
Etruscan    art,    carved    upon    these    urns    or    ash- 


176  The  Spell  of  Italy 

chests  are  of  singular  beauty.  Plainly  the  Medusa 
was  relied  upon  as  a  species  of  mascot,  a  spell  for 
the  warding  off  of  ill  and  danger  from  the  dead.  I 
recalled  the  scarabee  of  Egypt  and  instantly  there 
flashed  upon  me  a  singular,  unmistakable  resemblance 
between  the  place  where  we  stood  and  the  tombs  of 
the  Egyptian  kings.  The  weird  monstrosities  of 
Assyrian  remains,  seen  in  the  British  Museum,  also 
recurred  to  my  mind.  I  reaUzed  poignantly  the 
evolution  of  our  race  from  these  mysterious,  fantastic 
and  symbolic  religious  conceptions  to  the  calmly 
reasoned  religion  of  one  God  the  Father  and  Jesus 
Christ  his  Son. 

Something  oppressive  in  the  place  made  it  im- 
possible for  us,  not  being  students  of  archaeology,  to 
remain  long  within  its  gloomy  recesses.  Neverthe- 
less, when  we  came  away  we  found  that  the  stern, 
mysterious  faces  and  figures  had  estabhshed  an 
irresistible  control  over  our  imagination.  Before  we 
left  Perugia  finally  we  returned  for  a  longer  study  of 
this  lonely  sepulchre,  and  found  in  it  a  growing  at- 
traction, in  which  repulsion  must  probably  be  for 
ever  mingled.  No  better  description  of  the  impression 
made  upon  a  sensitive  mind  can  be  given  than  this, 
in  the  words  of  the  distinguished  explorer,  George 
Dennis : 

"  Let  the  traveller  on  no  account  fail  to  see  the 
Grotta  de'  Volunni.    If  my  description  has  failed  to 


Augusta  Perusia  177 

interest  him,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the  sepulchre, 
which,  though  of  late  date,  is  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable in  Etruria.  To  me  it  has  more  than  a 
common  charm.  I  shall  always  remember  it  as  the 
first  Etruscan  tomb  I  entered.  It  was  soon  after  its 
discovery  that  I  found  myself  at  the  mouth  of  this 
sepulchi'e.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  anticipation  of 
delight  with  which  I  leapt  from  the  vettura  into  the 
fierce  canicular  sun,  with  what  impatience  I  awaited 
the  arrival  of  the  keys,  with  what  strange  awe  I 
entered  the  dark  cavern  —  gazed  on  the  inexpHc- 
able  characters  in  the  doorway  —  descried  the  urns 
dimly  through  the  gloom  —  beheld  the  family  party 
at  their  sepulchi-al  revels  —  the  solemn  dreariness  of 
the  surrounding  cells.  The  figures  on  the  walls  and 
ceilings  strangely  stirred  my  fancy.  The  Furies,  with 
their  glaring  eyes,  gnashing  teeth,  and  ghastly  grins 
—  the  snakes,  with  which  the  walls  seemed  ahve, 
hissing  and  darting  their  tongues  at  me  —  and  above 
all  the  solitary  wing,  chilled  me  with  an  indefinable 
awe,  the  sense  of  something  mysterious  and  terrible. 
The  sepulchre  itself,  so  neatly  hewn  and  decorated, 
yet  so  gloomy;  fashioned  hke  a  house,  yet  with  no 
mortal  habitant,  —  all  was  so  strange,  so  novel.  It 
was  like  enchantment,  not  reaUty,  or  rather  it  was 
the  reahzation  of  the  pictures  of  subterranean  palaces 
and  spellbound  men,  which  youthful  fancy  had 
drawn  from  the  Arabian  Nights,  but  which  had  long 


178  The  Spell  of  Italy 

been  cast  aside  into  the  lumber-room  of  the  memory, 
now  to  be  suddenly  restored.  The  impressions  re- 
ceived in  this  tomb  first  directed  my  attention  to 
the  antiquities  of  Etruria." 

Our  intention  had  been  to  drive  to  Assisi  on  the 
following  day,  but  we  found  rain  in  torrents  when  we 
rose,  driven  before  a  wind  which  seemed  to  sweep  all 
Umbria  in  fury.  Changing  plans,  we  invited  to  our 
spacious,  great-windowed  room  two  Canadian  girls, 
artists,  whom  we  always  meet  wherever  we  go,  and 
a  little  Aberdeen  lady,  widow  of  a  judge,  who  lives 
in  Paris  and  appears  to  make  yearly  retreat  to 
Perugia  and  Assisi.  The  artists  brought  sketches 
to  work  over,  our  cosmopolitan  Scotch  lady  her  knit- 
ting; I  devoted  myself  to  the  tourists'  penance,  i.  e. 
darning  stockings  and  basting  ruffles,  while  FiUa  read 
aloud  to  us  all  Contessa  Carletti's  story,  '  Vertu  in 
Rilevo,'  turning  it  into  English  as  she  read. 


XI 


VIRTUES  IN  RELIEF 


[ICHOLAS  MASSEY  crossed  the  diminutive 
Corso  of  Perugia  at  ten  o'clock,  as  the 
city  bells  insistently  afl&rmed,  and  seated 
himself  at  a  small  table  on  the  sidewalk 
before  a  cafe  hard  by  the  sculptured  portal  of  the 
Cambio.  While  he  sipped  discontentedly  a  cup  of 
that  ominous  hquid  known  in  Umbria  as  coffee, 
he  spread  upon  the  table  before  him  and  read  be- 
tween his  cup  and  liis  cigar  a  letter  which  had  been 
handed  him  an  hour  before  by  the  concierge  at  his 
hotel.  He  had  begun  his  first  day  in  Perugia  with  a 
satisfactory  sense  of  vigorous  initiative.  The  Bru- 
fani  was  so  little  mediaeval  as  to  possess  well-appointed 
bathrooms,  A  cold  plunge,  after  his  early  chocolate, 
had  been  followed  by  a  long  walk  outside  the  city 
walls,  the  walk  of  orientation  which  the  orderly  mind 
prescribes  for  itself  before  attacking  a  new  town. 
Letters  of  introduction  from  distinguished  scholars 
of  Rome,  as  well  as  of  Cambridge,  had  preceded  liim, 
and  answers  now  in  his  pocket  opened  wide  the  doors 

179 


180  The  Spell  of  Italy 

for  research  into  Perugia's  Etruscan  remains.  To 
pursue  these  researches  he  had  come  thither.  After 
his  coffee  and  cigar,  he  would  make  his  way  to  the 
University,  —  where  it  might  be  he  had  as  yet  no 
definite  idea,  —  and,  in  fine,  all  was  in  train  for  a 
fair  beginning  of  his  work. 

Massey  threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  folded  his 
letter,  which  bore  the  postmark  of  Cambridge,  Mass., 
and  was  about  to  return  it  to  his  pocket,  when  he 
inconsequently  and  rapidly  opened  it  again  and 
turned  to  an  inner  page,  which  he  read  with  an  un- 
conscious smile  of  whimsical  although  tender  amuse- 
ment. The  sentences  which  he  re-read  were  as 
follows : 

"  You  will  at  least  understand,  Nick,  the  vague 
disappointment  on  my  part  in  your  having  passed  a 
year  in  Italy  without  a  serious  love-affair.  I  had 
hoped  better  things  of  you,  lad.  An  unmitigated 
American  might  hesitate,  but  for  you,  with  your 
father's  example  in  your  mind  and  your  mother's 
blood  in  your  veins,  for  you,  surely,  an  Itahan  mar- 
riage would  be  safe.  How  sweet  it  would  be  to  have 
once  more  in  the  old  house  the  presence  of  a  woman 
like  your  mother,  gentle,  grave,  dovelike,  permeat- 
ing rather  than  dominating,  —  such  women  as  only 
centuries  of  race  and  beauty  can  produce.  But  I 
might  know  how  it  will  end ;  such  a  dream  could  never 
come   true.      You    are    a    barbarously,    offensively 


Virtues  in  Relief  181 

modern  youngster,  and  it  is  easy  to  predict  the  sort 
you  will  establish  here  to  rule  over  us  men-folk  when 
you  turn  your  attention  that  way.  She  wiU  be 
tailor-made,  well-groomed,  high-pitched,  appallingly 
clever,  disastrously  competent.  She  will,  oh.  Heavens, 
my  prophetic  soul !  —  she  will  run  us  by  the  laws  of 
hygiene,  which  we  knew  not,  neither  our  fathers, 
and  be  president  of  the  Auxiliary  for  Municipal 
Reform.  I  know  her!  Good  Nicholas,  sweet  son, 
spare  me  yet  a  httle.  Visit  once  more  the  circle  of 
your  dear  mother's  kin  in  Palermo.  Surely  there  are 
stiU  SiciHan  women  with  the  eyes,  women  of  low 
voice,  quiet  manner,  —  not  too  clever,  not  eman- 
cipated." 

Again  the  letter  was  folded  and  returned,  this  time 
permanently,  to  Massey's  pocket,  with  an  imper- 
ceptible shake  of  the  head  and  a  negative  droop  of 
the  eyelids.  Noting  on  the  opposite  corner  of  the 
Piazza,  Mignini's  book-shop  with  its  brave  array  of 
prints  of  Perugia  and  tourists'  manuals,  he  strayed 
over  to  it  for  a  copy  of  the  day's  Ultalie,  thinking, 
with  a  certain  discomfort,  as  he  went,  of  the  vein  of 
seriousness  underlying  his  father's  irony.  If  his 
father  could  see  the  modern  Itahan  girl  as  he  had 
seen  her,  might  he  not  prefer  even  the  emancipated 
American  woman  he  had  sketched?  A  vision  of  the 
daughters  of  the  South  passed  before  his  mind, 
Signorinas  with  hard,  unthinking  black  eyes,  densely 


182  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

powdered,  opaque  skin,  primly  knowing  manner, 
desperately  conventional,  desperately  miinteresting 
with  their  small  talk  never  rising  above  "  II  Trova- 
tore  "  and  rival  diversions  and  resorts.  Women  like 
liis  long  dead  mother  did  not  exist  in  Italy  to-day,  he 
was  satisfied;  at  least,  he  had  not  encountered  them. 
Under  the  deep  archway  of  the  book-shop  Massey 
stopped,  the  newspaper  he  had  come  for  within  reach 
of  his  hand,  struck  by  a  pastel  drawing  pinned  up 
just  on  the  eye  hne.  Outside  the  pavement  of  the 
Corso  burned  in  the  stinging  heat  of  the  sun ;  within 
the  dusky  recesses  of  the  narrow,  book-Hned  shop 
the  air  was  cold,  and  filled  with  a  penetrating  fra- 
grance. An  old  woman  with  a  broad  basket  of  balls 
of  sweet  lavender  encased  in  reeds,  known  as  spindi, 
stood  chatting  with  the  lihraio,  and  the  odour  of  the 
lavender  buds  was  keen  on  the  air.  Massey  ever 
thereafter  associated  that  fragrance  with  the  figure 
which  held  his  eye  for  some  moments  by  its  singular 
charm  and  its  faint,  elusive  colouring.  The  sketch 
was  plainly  the  copy  of  a  relief  on  some  ancient, 
perhaps  crumbHng  facade;  the  face  was  marred 
slightly,  the  marble  plainly  time-stained.  Below  it 
was  the  name  "  Pazienza."  A  woman  with  the 
proportions  of  a  Greek  goddess  seemed  stepping 
forward  from  a  shallow  niche,  gathering  with  one 
hand  the  sweeping,  wind-blown  folds  of  her  drapery, 
while  with  the  other  she  steadied  a  yoke,  which, 


Virtues  in  Relief  183 


pressing  upon  her  neck,  inclined  the  head  forward 
in  an  attitude  of  submission,  strangely  moving  by 
reason  of  its  strength  and  calmness.  The  whole 
figure  was  Greek  in  its  freedom  and  breadth  of  line, 
but  Christian  in  its  expression  of  voluntary,  patient 
endurance  of  sorrow.  What  most  enchained  Massey's 
attention,  however,  was  the  poetic  beauty  of  the 
billowing  drapery,  and  the  poise  and  exaltation  of 
consciousness  which  the  sketch  suggested,  whether 
the  original  relief  bore  them  in  equal  degree  or  not. 
What  was  the  original?  Where  was  it?  Why  had 
he  not  known  of  a  work  of  such  convincing  genius? 
And  who  had  the  spiritual  penetration  to  discern 
and  the  artistry  to  reproduce,  with  so  feeble  a  thing 
as  coloured  pencil,  a  conception  thus  profound  and 
statuesque? 

The  peasant  woman  and  the  merchant  still  prattled 
on  in  their  rapid  guttural  Umbrian  in  the  cool  dusk 
beyond  him;  a  cloud  of  dust  and  a  shriek  of  brass 
announced  an  automobile  outside  in  the  Corso. 
Still  Massey  stood  immovable,  gazing  at  the  Pazienza, 
when  suddenly  he  found  himself  surrounded  with 
a  whirl  of  chiffon,  silk  and  feathers,  hke  a  man 
caught  at  some  exposed  point  unaware  by  a  rising 
ocean  tide.  The  automobile  had  stopped  and  dis- 
charged its  inmates  at  Mignini's  door.  Two  large 
ladies  \\dth  fluttering  veils,  stiff,  rustling  skirts  and 
tinkling  bracelets  on  their  plump,  gloved  arms,  were 


184  The  Spell  of  Italy 

already  upon  liim  and  the  fresh  fragrance  of  laven- 
der was  smothered  in  fumes  of  RimmeFs  costUest 
extracts. 

Raising  his  hat,  Massey  withdrew  quickly  into  the 
shadow  of  the  shop  interior,  while  the  owner  made 
obsequious  haste  to  present  himself  to  the  forestieri 
and  ask  their  pleasure.  But,  hke  Massey,  the  new- 
comers seemed  unable  to  get  past  the  sketch  of  the 
Pazienza.  Plainly,  indeed,  it  was  for  this  they  had 
come. 

Suddenly  the  leading  lady  turned  to  Mignini  and 
declared,  in  a  commanding  tone,  still  in  Enghsh: 

"  You  told  me  yesterday  that  the  price  of  this 
little  sketch  was  twenty-five  Hre,"  —  then  more  dis- 
tinctly, —  "  twenty-five,  vinty-chink."  The  libraio 
nodded. 

"  Si,  si,  Signora." 

"  Well,  that  is  altogether  too  much,  unless  we 
know  that  it  is  the  sketch  of  an  artist  of  some  repu- 
tation. Do  you  understand?  We  want  to  know 
whose  the  work  is." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  helplessly,  not 
having  understood  a  word. 

"Oh,  dear,  this  is  too  tiresome!"  exclaimed  the 
lady.  "  Why  do  people  say  that  you  can  come  to 
Italy  without  the  language?  Isn't  there  some  one  —  " 
Here  she  broke  off,  having  looked  about  and  for  the 
first  time  caught  sight  of  Massey's  dark  Itahan  face. 


Virtues  in  Relief  185 

"  Oh,  monsieur,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  pleading  tone 
unconsciously  patronizing,  "  do  you  speak  any  Eng- 
lish?   A  few  words,  perhaps?  " 

Massey  bowed  with  ceremonious  gravity.  In  a  low 
voice  he  then  repeated  to  the  merchant  in  rapid 
Italian,  wholly  without  foreign  accent,  the  conten- 
tion of  his  customer,  as  he  had  just  heard  it.  After 
a  moment's  dialogue,  with  a  touch  of  perplexity  on 
his  face,  he  turned  again  to  the  ladies  and  said, 
courteously  but  without  affabihty,  "  Madame,  Signor 
Mignini  says  the  name  of  the  artist  is  not  given.  It 
would  not  be  known  outside  Perugia.  The  price  is 
fixed." 

"Very  curious!"  exclaimed  both  ladies,  turning 
to  each  other  and  forgetting  Massey.  They  then 
looked  again  at  the  sketch,  and  murmured  that  it 
would  be  really  quite  interesting  to  have  the  work 
of  a  mysterious  inconnu  of  Perugia.  There  was  a 
chnk  of  money  and,  a  moment  later,  the  picture, 
unpinned  from  the  wall,  was  in  process  of  wrapping. 
At  this  point  the  customer  in  chief  turned  to  Massey 
with  a  smile  as  of  general  benevolence  for  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men  and  said: 

*'  It  is  remarkable  what  good  English  you  Italian 
gentlemen  speak  sometimes.  Certainly  very  clever, 
for  English  is  so  difficult  for  foreigners,  —  rCest  ce 
pasf  " 

Massey  bowed.    The  libraio  handed  out  the  picture, 


186  The  Spell  of  Italy 

the  women  swept  back  to  their  automobile,  followed 
by  the  seller  of  spindi,  who  made  with  them  prompt 
sale  of  her  wares.  For  an  instant,  Massey  stood 
staring  at  the  square  of  brown  paint  left  bare  by  the 
removal  of  the  Pazienza,  with  a  curiously  keen  re- 
sentment, a  sense  of  having  been  bereft  of  something 
intimately  belonging  to  himself.  Then  he  took  up  a 
copy  of  Ultalie,  and  gave  the  shopman  a  soldo,  as 
he  turned  to  go  out. 

"  The  Signore  is  from  Rome?  " 

''  Yes." 

"  Will  be  some  time  perhaps  in  Perugia?  No?  A 
day?    A  week?  " 

"  Months  possibly." 

"  Va  bene,  va  bene !  Come  in  and  let  us  serve  you. 
A  rivederla,  Signore." 

Massey  paused  under  the  shadow  of  the  famous 
fountain  in  the  Piazza  to  consult  his  map.  Looking 
back  he  saw  Mignini  in  his  shop  door  speaking  to  the 
seller  of  spindi  with  the  manner  of  one  who  gives 
definite  and  emphatic  directions.  The  woman  nodded 
and  went  her  way  down  the  Corso. 

Massey  informed  himself  that,  behind  the  Canonica, 
a  street  called  the  Via  Appia  would  lead  him  to  the 
University  and  its  Etruscan  Museum.  In  no  mood 
for  sightseeing,  he  passed  the  statue  of  Pope  Julius 
III  with  scant  ceremony,  and  received  from  afar 
without  response  the  challenge  of  the  Griffin  and  the 


Virtues  in  Relief  187 

Lion  over  the  portal  of  the  Palazzo  dei  Priori.  To  be 
sure,  they  had  guarded  the  Guelph  citadel  of  Peru- 
gia for  six  centuries,  but  there  would  be  time  later  for 
these  modern  things;  to-day  the  dates  he  sought 
must  be  six  centuries  before  the  present  era. 

The  Via  Appia  he  discovered,  after  careful  search, 
to  be  a  narrow  flight  of  steps  in  a  vaulted  passage 
cut  through  the  city's  original  Etruscan  wall.  Tliis 
discovery  Massey  found  enlivening,  and  he  went  on 
his  way  down  the  Via  Appia  with  fresh  expectation. 
His  interest  was  quickened  further  by  the  singular 
course  of  the  street,  which  now  emerged  from  the 
wall,  broadened  and  dropped  steeply,  presenting  on 
either  side  a  row  of  quaint  house-fronts.  Midway 
between  these  was  projected  a  narrow,  massively 
walled  aqueduct  supported  by  arches,  which,  within 
the  enclosure  of  the  Via  Appia,  bore  the  sub-title  of 
Via  Aquedotto,  and  led  foot-passengers  over  and 
above  the  street  level,  bridge  Hke,  to  the  outlying 
quarter  of  the  town  in  which  the  University  stood. 

Massey  found  an  indefinable  delight  in  the  aerial 
situation  as  he  walked  on  by  the  aqueduct,  on  a  level 
soon  with  the  fourth  story  of  such  houses  below  as 
rose  to  that  altitude.  The  sweep  of  the  Umbrian 
mountains,  purple  in  the  sun,  rose  beyond,  wliile  be- 
hind him  the  wall  of  the  mysterious  prehistoric  age 
enclosed  the  silent  town.  Below,  at  an  increasing 
depth,  lay  the  Via  Appia  with  the  red-brown  tiles 


188  The  Spell  of  Italy 

of  its  house-roofs,  lichen-grown  and  crumpled,  studded 
with  small  dormer  windows  and  fantastic  chimney- 
pots. Presently  the  Aquedotto  assumed  the  char- 
acteristics of  a  street  proper;  small  dwellings  with 
shining  brass  knockers  and  name-plates  appeared, 
hard  upon  the  enclosing  parapet.  Where  they  came 
from,  Massey  could  not  be  sure,  nor  upon  what  they 
were  established.  One  entrance  caught  his  fancy 
peculiarly,  by  its  minghng  of  seclusion  and  frank- 
ness. Involuntarily  he  stopped  and  studied  the 
place.  The  small  plastered  fagade,  set  into  the  face 
of  the  parapet,  rose  not  far  above  his  head,  and  was 
only  wide  enough  to  frame  the  green  door  whose 
threshold  lay  level  with  the  aqueduct  pavement. 
On  the  door  was  a  lion-head  knocker  and  the  number 
ten.  The  door  opened,  or  rather  closed,  upon  a 
covered  bridge  of  one  span,  which  connected  the 
Aquedotto  with  the  fourth  story  of  a  tall  house 
rising  from  a  street  crossing  the  Via  Appia  below. 
The  house  and  its  covered  bridge  were  of  pale  yellow 
stucco,  red  roofed;  the  fourth  floor  dwelling  was  close 
under  the  mossy  tOes.  The  panes  of  the  small  case- 
ment windows  shone  with  cleanness,  and  at  the  sills 
pots  of  geraniums  and  pinks  hung  out  in  iron  loops, 
wholesome  and  rich  in  leaf  and  stalk,  but  a  httle 
reticent  of  blossom,  as  is  their  wont  in  Perugia. 
The  flower-flanked  windows  were  closed  and  veiled 
with  simple  cottage  curtains;    the  green  door  bore 


Virtues  in  Relief  189 

the  air  of  never  having  been  opened;  the  sealed 
passage  over  the  street  far  below  —  he  noted  the 
name  of  that  street  to  be  the  Way  of  Perils  —  seemed 
never  to  have  echoed  to  the  sound  of  footsteps. 

Massey  pulled  himself  up  with  impatience  and 
hurried  on  his  way  to  the  University,  aware  suddenly 
that  he  might  be  making  himself  more  than  a  little 
absurd  by  his  absorbed  study  of  some  matter-of- 
fact  Perugian  burgher's  residence.  But  there  was  a 
unique  quality,  a  mystery,  a  silence  and  a  charm  in 
the  humble  abode  beyond  the  green  door  on  the 
Aquedotto,  which  haunted  him  and  stayed  his 
steps  not  that  morning  only  but  in  the  days  follow- 
ing, when  he  passed  it  constantly  on  his  walk  to  and 
from  the  University. 

II 

Two  weeks  of  engrossing  study  followed  for  Massey, 
in  which  two  events  only  occurred  to  connect  him 
by  any  personal  interest  with  the  old  Umbrian  city. 
The  one  was  the  acquaintance  of  a  member  of  the 
Perugian  medical  faculty.  Doctor  Alfani,  a  man  but 
few  years  his  senior,  who,  however,  had  wife  and 
child,  a  snug  villa  near  the  Porta  Sole,  and  was  well 
on  the  way  to  a  considerable  professional  reputation, 
Alfani  was  of  the  fair  and  florid  Itahan  type,  incredi- 
bly facile  and  quick-witted,  frankly  selfish  in  his 
ambitions,   not  wholly  simpatica  to  the   American 


190  The  Spell  of  Italy 

student  who  had  thu  fortune  or  misfortune  of  being 
born  an  idealist,  and  yet  a  fascinating  companion. 

Around  the  other  incident  Massey's  thoughts  had 
taken  on  a  trick  of  hanging  persistently.  Four  or 
five  days  after  liis  first  visit  to  Mignini's  shop  and  the 
abduction,  as  he  considered  it,  by  the  automobilists, 
of  the  pastel  Pazienza,  he  had  found  one  evening, 
at  the  entrance  to  the  shop,  a  replica  of  the  same 
sketch.  Elated  by  the  discovery,  he  had  hastened 
to  buy  the  drawing,  which  he  found  even  fuller  of 
charm  and  pathos  than  the  other,  as  he  remembered 
it.  Making  use  of  all  the  finesse  of  which  he  was 
capable,  he  attempted  to  obtain  from  the  lihraio 
some  clue  to  the  identity  of  the  artist,  but  without 
result.  Mignini  remained  imperturbably  courteous, 
but  imperturbably  uncommunicative  in  this  partic- 
ular. He  showed  himself,  however,  sincerely  amazed 
and  even  grieved  that  the  Roman  Signore  had  not 
thus  far  taken  the  trouble  to  acquaint  himself  with 
the  famous  work  of  which  this  little  Pazienza  was  an 
insignificant  detail,  ma,  a  mere  toy  for  the  tourist. 
Not  to  have  seen  the  fagade  of  the  Oratorio  di  San 
Bernardino,  that  consummation  of  the  Quattrocento 
Renaissance,  that  chief  glory  of  Perugia !  Rome  her- 
self had  not  its  equal.  He  begged  the  Signore  no 
longer  to  do  his  city  such  injustice.  He  pointed  across 
the  Corso  to  a  narrow  lane  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Palazzo  dei  Priori,  and  called  by  its  name.     This  he 


Virtues  in  Relief  191 

assured  him  would  lead  directly  to  the  Piazza  di  San 
Francesco,  and,  ecco  !  he  would  have  Duccio's  mar- 
vellous masterpiece  before  him.  Following  counsel 
so  urgent  and  direction  so  explicit,  at  the  close  of  the 
long-drawn  dinner  at  the  Brufani,  Massey  had  found 
liis  way  to  the  ancient  oratory,  in  spite  of  growing 
twilight  and  a  rising  tumult  of  one  of  the  wind- 
storms which  only  Perugians  can  endure  unmoved. 
Alone  on  the  deserted  and  wind-swept  green  before 
the  oratory,  the  celestial  beauty  of  Duccio's  sculp- 
tured facade  had  broken  upon  him.  The  thrilling 
joy  of  the  angehc  choristers,  the  sweetness  of  the 
cherub  heads,  the  swirl  and  sweep  of  the  drapery, 
the  subtle  blending  of  soft  blues,  pinks,  and  creamy 
yellows  in  the  terra-cotta  and  marble  from  base  to 
pediment,  imparted  an  almost  aching  sense  of  beauty. 
For  the  marvels  and  miracles  of  the  macerated  saint 
he  had  then  no  leisure  and  no  mood,  for  the  thing 
which  smote  most  keenly  upon  his  perception  was 
the  Greek  exuberance  of  rapture,  and  of  the  love  of 
life  in  the  ensemble,  unparalleled,  he  thought,  in 
Christian  art.  Nowhere  save  in  Bernard  liimsolf 
was  faintest  touch  of  austerity.  What,  in  Duccio's 
thought,  had  been  the  significance  of  the  all-pervasive 
wind,  wrapping  their  draperies  in  transparent  folds 
around  the  firm,  round  limbs  of  the  happy  angels 
and  wheehng  the  airy  mantles  of  the  Franciscan 
Virtues  into  the  sweeping  curves  of  aureoles?     Was 


192  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

it  the  breath  of  God,  which  bloweth  where  it  hsteth, 
and  the  sound  is  heard,  but  whence  it  cometh  or 
whither  it  goeth  man  cannot  guess?  Or  was  it  the 
rushing,  mighty  wind  that  filled  the  place,  giving  high 
induement  to  saint  and  angel  for  labours  tireless 
and  divine? 

Massey  had  pondered  thus,  when  suddenly  his 
eyes  recognized  his  Pazienza,  the  figure  so  low  and 
so  small  that  for  some  moments  he  had  failed  to 
perceive  it.  He  noted  with  keen  interest  the  accuracy 
of  the  sketch  he  had  bought  of  Mignini,  but  he  was 
filled  with  fresh  surprise  at  the  difficulties  which  had 
been  overcome  and  at  the  charm  which  the  unknown 
artist  had  been  able  to  impart;  for  he  vaguely  felt 
the  sketch  to  possess  a  spiritual  pathos  over  and  be- 
yond the  rehef  itself.  His  eyes  followed  the  lovely 
figures  rising  above  the  Pazienza,  the  symboUc 
Franciscan  Virtues  of  somewhat  doubtful  identity, 
and  then  discovered,  with  fresh  influx  of  dehght,  the 
shape  of  the  Purita,  facing  the  Pazienza  across  the 
portal.  A  long  breath  of  irrepressible  satisfaction 
escaped  Massey 's  lips.  Here  was  the  crown  of  all,  — 
this  stately  virginal  creature,  with  the  languor  of 
her  heavy-Hdded  eyes,  the  child's  pouting  sweetness 
of  her  lips,  the  faintly  rosy  lilies  in  her  hand,  and  all 
the  loveUness  of  her  enswathed  in  that  sweeping 
aureole  of  her  chastity. 

"  Call  her  Purita  if  they  choose!  "  cried  Massey  to 


PAZIENZA,    BY    DUCCIO. 


Virtues  in  Relief  193 

himself,  "  and  well  they  may,  but  she  is  the  bride, 
not  the  nun,  the  bride  for  a  man,  not  the  bride  of 
the  church." 

Up  to  this  time  Massey  had  remained  indifferent 
to  the  rising  storm,  which,  howUng  down  the  narrow 
funnel  of  the  Via  dei  Priori,  now  struck  the  exposed 
piazza  where  he  stood  with  unlooked  for  violence. 
A  sharp  sound  as  of  flapping  paper  called  his  atten- 
tion to  a  black-gowned  person,  a  rehgieuse,  he  took 
it  from  the  garb,  who  had  probably  been  sitting  at 
work  all  the  while  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  to  the 
south  of  the  Oratory.  The  wind  had  searched  her 
secluded  corner,  and  had  evidently  torn  the  sheet  of 
water-colour  paper  on  which  she  had  been  working 
from  the  frail  pins  which  held  it  to  the  drawing- 
board,  and  it  had  gone  whirhng  through  the  air 
above  Massey's  head. 

A  quick  bound,  the  reach  of  a  long  arm,  and  the 
flying  thing  was  captured  unharmed.  He  crossed 
the  green  to  restore  it  to  the  owner,  who  stood  await- 
ing it,  with  one  hand  unconsciously  hfted,  the  black 
folds  of  her  ample  scarf  and  skirt  billowing  around 
her  in  hues  worthy  of  Duccio  himself.  When  he 
saw  her  face,  Massey  knew  perfectly  that  she  and 
not  another  had  copied  the  Pazienza  he  had  learned 
to  love.  He  could  not  describe  her  face  accurately 
to  himself  afterward;  he  knew  it  was  pale,  serious, 
and  strangely  quiet,  and  that  on  the  smooth  fore- 


194  The  Spell  of  Italy 

head  below  the  black  line  of  the  falling  scarf  rested 
unmistakably  the  imprint  of  silent  endurance  of 
sorrow. 

She  had  shown  scant  interest  at  his  interposition 
in  her  behalf.  She  had  acquiesced,  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course,  in  his  request  that  he  might  carry  her 
kit  of  artist's  tools  up  the  steep  street  down  which 
the  wind  was  tearing  its  wild  way.  He  had  felt  as 
he  gave  her  his  assistance  and  walked  by  her  side 
that  the  woman  bore  about  her  a  child's  artless 
unconsciousness,  indefinably  mingled  with  the  hau- 
teur of  an  intense  reserve.  Her  manner  of  receiving  his 
passing  attentions  implied  that  they  were  in  no  way 
unexpected  or  of  importance  to  her.  That  she  was, 
after  all,  not  a  nun  he  had  assured  himself  as  they 
proceeded  up  the  Via  dei  Priori.  The  black  cashmere 
scarf  which  covered  her  head  and  shoulders  was 
fastened  to  smoothly  parted  hair  showing  above  the 
forehead,  and  on  her  hand  were  rings.  Her  face  he 
noted  as  being  wholly  without  the  nun's  guarded 
austerity.  Its  passiveness  seemed  to  him  that  of 
unawakened  rather  than  of  suppressed  womanhood. 

At  the  corner  of  the  great  church  which  the  Peru- 
gians  call  the  Chiesa  Nuova,  albeit  its  date  is  from 
1218,  they  had  been  met  by  an  elderly  woman  with 
a  printed  kerchief  tied  under  her  chin,  who  broke  out 
at  once  into  exclamations  of  excited  apology.  His 
companion  put  an  end  to  these  with  a  gesture,  took 


Virtues  in  Relief  195 

her  belongings  from  his  hands,  and  gave  tliem  into 
those  of  the  servant.  Then  with  a  shght  sinile  and  a 
"  grazie,  Signore.  Buona  notte,"  turned  o&  from  the 
Via  dei  Priori,  and  was  immediately  lost  to  sight  in 
the  labyrinth  of  vaulted  passages  in  which  that  quar- 
ter of  Perugia  abounds.  This  could  have  been 
fairly  expected  to  close  the  episode,  at  least  for  that 
night,  but  still  more  material  was  added  for  his 
thoughts  to  brood  upon.  As  he  stood  a  moment, 
puzzled  by  a  sense  that  he  had  somewhere  before 
encountered  the  elderly  servant,  a  young  woman 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms  came  down  from  the  portico 
of  the  church,  in  the  shelter  of  which  she  had  been 
bending  to  nurse  the  child,  and  bade  him  a  smihng 
Buona  sera. 

Supposing  her  to  be  straight  beggar,  Massey  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  for  a  soldo,  upon  which  the 
woman,  with  a  nod  of  her  head  in  the  direction 
taken  by  the  artist,  and  a  melancholy  smile,  remarked, 
"  Ah,  the  dear  being!  simpatica,  is  she  not,  Signore? 
Nostra  Santa  Pazienza,  so  we  call  her.  The  Signore 
is  not  of  Perugia,  perhaps,  and  does  not  know." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  the  lady's  name? "  asked 
Massey,  slipping  a  piece  of  silver  into  the  baby's 
hand. 

For  answer  he  was  told  that  it  was  too  hard  to 
pronounce,  —  such  names  the  forestieri  had,  to  be 
sure!     But   what   mattered   it  since   every   one   in 


196  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Perugia  knew  the  Signorina  for  what  she  was,  Santa 
Pazienza?  Did  she  not  paint  ever  and  always  the 
Pazienza  of  San  Bernardino?  Four  years  ago  she 
had  come  to  Perugia  with  her  mother,  and  both  were 
painters,  and  like  sisters,  ma,  they  breathed  one 
breath.  Such  looks  of  happiness,  of  tenderness,  of 
gaiety  in  each  other's  company,  Hke  two  angels  in 
Paradise, — never  a  frown  nor  look  of  care.  Did 
the  angels  perhaps  envy  such  happiness?  It  cannot 
be  determined.  But  the  worst  came,  and  the  mother, 
even  without  a  day's  sickening,  lay  dead.  Ah, 
Misericordia,  it  would  break  a  heart  of  stone!  And 
yet  what  does  our  Signorina  do  next?  All  said,  she 
will  return  by  the  great  ship  to  her  own  country  — 
Ah-merica.  But  no,  she  remains  in  Perugia.  She 
will  then  make  it  her  task  to  visit  the  grave  without 
a  stone  in  the  strangers'  cemetery?  No.  Not  that 
even.  She  makes  of  the  casa  where  she  and  the 
Signora  lived  their  sweet  life  side  by  side  her  holy 
place.  She  keeps  it  as  it  was  ever,  fresh  and 
pure  and  full  of  light,  those  say  who  have  entered. 
And  there  she  lives  alone,  without  tears,  but  also 
without  laughing,  with  no  care  to  speak  or  to  be 
spoken  to,  except  when  she  helps  the  poor  and 
the  sick.  She  is  poor  herself,  the  holy  child,  for  all 
that  she  lives  upon  she  must  earn  for  herself,  they 
say,  but  Domeneddio  cares  for  such  as  she,  is  it  not 
true,  Signore?  "... 


Virtues  in  Relief  197 

Massey  had  hastened  away,  perceiving  painfully 
the  nature  of  that  yoke  of  sorrow  and  submission 
which  the  Pazienza  of  his  picture  bore.  To  inquire 
further  concerning  the  lonely  artist  had  become  all 
at  once  impossible,  but  to  forget  her  even  more  im- 
possible. 

Ill 

It  was  early  September,  and  after  prolonged  work 
at  the  University,  on  a  certain  evening  Massey  had 
fallen  in  with  Doctor  Alfani  and  they  strolled  to- 
gether down  the  Aquedotto,  pausing  to  lean  upon 
the  parapet  and  enjoy  the  prospect  of  the  Tiber 
Valley  in  the  sunset  hght.  Continuing  their  casual 
talk,  Doctor  Alfani  remarked,  as  he  lighted  a  cigar: 

"  And  you  say  you  are  tired  of  your  hotel  life, 
Signor  Massa?  "  This  was  the  Perugian  version  of 
Massey's  name. 

"  The  hotel  is  probably  the  best  in  Umbria," 
replied  the  American,  "  but  the  crowd  of  servants 
always  about,  with  their  confounded  ci\ilities  and 
calculations  on  the  contents  of  a  man's  purse,  makes 
the  atmosphere  antipatica.  Besides,  I  am  tired  of  the 
long  walk  by  the  Corso  in  the  sun  fom*  times  a  day." 

"  Why  not  come  over  here? "  asked  Alfani, 
pointing  down  to  the  row  of  houses  below  them  in 
the  Via  Appia. 

"  How  could  it  be  managed?  " 


198  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  Quite  simply.  There  are  very  decent  people, 
the  Famigha  Cetti,  in  a  house  yonder  near  where 
the  Aquedotto  starts,  you  see?  —  Numero  23,  who 
would  rent  you  a  couple  of  rooms.  They  do  it  often, 
keep  them  tidy  for  you,  send  in  your  chocolate  or 
whatever  in  the  morning,  give  you  the  freedom  of 
their  garden,  —  not  a  bad  place  for  your  cigar  and 
newspaper," 

Massey  stood  silent,  looking  down  at  the  quaint 
red-roofed  dwelHng,  and  its  garden  beyond  the  high 
wall,  where  pink  poppies  and  tall  rows  of  holly- 
hocks were  blooming  between  fig-trees  and  trelhsed 
vines.  It  might  be  rather  agreeable,  and  yet  there 
would  be  no  cold  plunge  in  the  morning,  no  electric 
light  to  work  by  in  the  evening;  he  would  lose  cer- 
tain other  comforts ;  perhaps,  on  the  whole  — 
Massey  turned  his  head  quickly,  hearing  a  door 
behind  him  on  the  silent  Aquedotto  open  and  close 
again.  It  was  the  green  door  of  Number  10,  the 
mysterious  entrance  which  he  had  never  yet  seen 
open,  and  which  had  retained  an  inexplicable  hold 
upon  his  imagination,  A  woman  upon  whom  the 
door  must  have  just  closed  was  passing  them  at  the 
moment,  with  a  basket  on  her  arm,  A  pungent 
fragrance  of  fresh  lavender  passed  with  her.  He 
had  seen  the  woman  before,  —  she  had  been  selling 
spindi  at  Mignini's  shop  that  day,  and  once  again 
he  had  encountered  hcM-  —  it  was  clear  now. 


Virtues  in  Relief  199 

"  Who  lives  in  that  cuiious  fourth  floor  with  the 
bridge?  "   he  aslced  Alfani,  as  they  strolled  on. 

"  Oh,  the  Casa  del  Ponte?  The  best  nurse  in 
Perugia,"  replied  Alfani,  carelessly,  "  As  it  happens 
she  is  a  countrywoman  of  yours,  or  so  I  think,  at 
least  foreign  born.  But  she  is  wholly  of  Perugia  now. 
I  do  not  know  how  long  she  may  have  lived  here." 

"  What  did  you  say  is  the  name?  " 

"  She  is  addressed  as  Signorina  Constance,  in 
reality  her  first  name,  but  the  last,  —  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  have  heard  it  properly  pronounced.  It  is 
rather  difficult  and  perfectly  immaterial.  The  lady 
is  really  better  known  as  Sister  Pazienza,  —  Santa 
Pazienza  the  poor  people  call  her,  and  she  is  as  poor 
as  they.  If  you  remain  here  you  may  see  her,  but 
never  in  the  more  pubhc  places.  You  would  know 
her  by  her  garb,  —  a  fair  woman,  rather  tall,  in 
semi-conventual  dress." 

"  Why  does  she  affect  such  a  costume?  " 

"  Simply  for  convenience  in  her  work  as  artist 
and  nurse.  Possibly  for  protection  also.  It  is  a 
good  thing.     She  might  be  beautiful  otherwise." 

Massey's  next  remark  struck  Alfani  as  irrelevant. 
Plainly  the  humble  affairs  of  Sister  Pazienza  did  not 
interest  the  American  scholar. 

"  I  beHeve,  on  the  w^hole,  that  suggestion  of 
yours  appeals  to  me  about  an  apartment  in  the 
house    yonder,  the  one  with   the   garden    and    the 


200  The  Spell  of  Italy 

singular  Lady  Chapel  excrescence.  You  know  the 
people?  " 

"  Oh,  very  well.  I  spent  three  months  in  the 
house  myself  when  I  came,  a  bachelor,  to  Perugia. 
If  you  wish,  we  can  cross  over  when  we  reach  the 
end  of  the  Aquedotto,  and  I  will  introduce  you." 

"  Thanks.  I  should  be  glad  to  have  you.  This 
Signorina  Constance  whom  you  mentioned  just  now, 
she  supports  herself,  then,  by  nursing?  " 

"  No,  no,  no!  What  she  lives  on  only  God  knows. 
She  sketches  a  little  and  sells  a  drawing  now  and  then, 
perhaps  pays  her  rent  that  way.  She  does  not  take 
money  for  nursing  when  it  is  among  the  poor,  which 
it  is  in  general.  She  is  hard  to  get  for  upper-class 
cases." 

"  Pray  what  does  she  eat?  —  her  heart?  "  asked 
Massey,  curtly. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  Alfani  replied,  with  languid  lack 
of  interest.  "  These  poor  beggars  whose  children 
or  friends  she  has  nursed  send  her  in  bread,  if  they 
chance  to  be  bakers,  a  httle  macaroni,  perhaps  a 
lettuce  now  and  then,  you  know,  if  they  have  their 
bit  of  garden.  She  does  not  starve.  Saints  do  not 
need  much  to  eat." 

Massey  could  not  repress  an  impatient  ejaculation, 
which  Alfani,  having  no  faintest  guess  at  his  inward 
rage,  interpreted  as  ennui  at  the  subject  of  conver- 
sation, which  he  accordingly  made  haste  to  change. 


Virtues  in  Relief  201 

The  following  morning,  Massey  took  an  early  train 
to  Florence,  returning  late,  A  day  or  two  after  saw 
him  established  at  Number  23  on  the  Via  Appia, 
much  to  his  satisfaction.  He  had  found  a  strategic 
point  from  which  to  conduct  operations  connected 
with  the  siege  of  the  green  door  on  the  Aquedotto, 
to  which  he  had  impetuously  dedicated  himself. 

rv 

It  was  nearly  noon  of  the  bright  September  day, 
and  the  sun  was  flooding  with  light  a  spacious  bed- 
chamber in  the  Casa  del  Ponte. 

Whatever  air  of  mystery,  real  or  fancied,  might 
invest  this  house  from  without,  witliin  its  aspect 
was  of  frank  simpHcity,  touched  by  the  radiance  of 
essential  refinement. 

The  Signorina  Constance,  with  the  transparent 
ruffles  of  her  night-dress  falhng  back  from  her  throat, 
her  hair  hanging  in  two  hea\'y,  loosened  braids  down 
her  back,  sat  up  in  bed,  rubbing  her  eyes  open  with 
both  white  fists,  looking  remarkably  like  a  sleepy 
child. 

"  Gina!  "  she  called,  in  a  clear  and  imperative 
voice,  "  Gina!  "  Then,  as  there  was  no  response, 
she  scrambled  from  the  bed  and  pulled  vigorously 
at  an  antiquated  crimson  bell-rope  between  the 
opposite  wdndows.  Opening  wide  the  casement,  she 
cautiously  drew  aside  the  musHn  curtain,  to  examine 


202  The  Spell  of  Italy 

a  pot  of  carnations  blossoming  in  the  iron  ring  at 
the  window  ledge. 

At  that  moment  the  chamber  door  opened,  and 
the  old  spindi  seller  entered  with  a  small  tray, 
on  which  were  oranges  and  part  of  a  loaf  of 
bread. 

"  See,  Gina,"  cried  her  mistress,  a  note  of  exulta- 
tion vibrating  in  her  voice,  "there  are  three  new  blos- 
soms on  the  carnation,  so  I  am  going  to  pick  one  for 
my  breakfast.  Oh,  the  sweet  thing!"  and  pressing  the 
flower  against  her  breast  with  both  hands,  she  re- 
tm-ned  to  the  bed.  "  What  time  is  it?  I  have  slept 
so  soundly.    It  must  be  very  late." 

"  Nearly  noon,  Signorina,  and  you  have  needed 
every  wink  of  sleep  you  had,  being  up  the  whole 
night  this  time.  Thanks  to  Madonna  and  all  Saints, 
the  Mandorla  has  the  new  nurse  from  Siena  now. 
They  send  word  she  has  come.  Ma,  the  Contessa 
will  find  the  difference,  though!  I  say  no  more. 
But  look,  cara  Signorina,  you  can  have  better  than 
one  carnation  with  your  bread  and  oranges  this 
morning.  A  man  from  the  Spedizione  was  here  a  full 
hour  ago.  By  good  luck  he  came  up  from  the  Via 
Pericolosa  and  did  not  distm'b  your  sleep.  Madonna ! 
there  is  richness!  It  is  not  my  affair,  but  I  judge 
from  the  shape.  I  have  seen  the  way  the  Florentines 
send  flowers  before  now.  Shall  I  bring  it  in?  And, 
Signorina,  good  luck  is  never  lonely  —  a  new  com- 


Virtues  in  Relief  203 

mission  sent  by  il  padrone!  Another  picture  has  been 
ordered." 

"  At  the  same  price?  "  Constance,  who  was  now 
attacking  an  orange  with  vigorous  appetite,  asked 
the  question  with  practical  decision  of  tone. 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes,  twenty-five  Hre." 

"  Excellent,  it  shall  be  done,  —  the  Pazienza,  of 
course?  " 

"  No,  Signorina,  not  so.  This  customer  will  have 
nothing  but  the  figure  opposite.  Here  is  the  writing 
about  it.  This  was  sent  to  Signor  Mignini,  and  he 
bade  me  give  it  to  you." 

Constance  studied  the  concise  ItaHan  memoran- 
dum. "  One  pastel  sketch  of  the  Purita  of  Agostino 
Duccio  della  Robbia  on  the  fagade  of  the  Oratory  of 
San  Bernardino.  Size  the  same  as  in  previous 
sketches  by  same  artist,  price  25  I.  Order  to  be  filled 
in  two  weeks.  Send  to  Hotel  Brufani,  Care  Concierge." 

Constance  looked  over  the  edge  of  her  orange 
thoughtfully  for  a  moment. 

"  But  you  will  do  it,  Signorina?  "  interjected  the 
old  woman,  with  obvious  anxiety. 

"  I  must,"  was  the  laconic  answer.  "  What  is  it, 
Gina,  about  flowers?  " 

Before  the  question  was  asked,  Gina  darted  from 
the  room  and  returned  bringing  in  her  arms  a  cir- 
cular hamper,  carefully  corded  and  sealed,  which  she 
placed  upon  the  bed.     Cords  being  cut  and  covers 


204  The  Spell  of  Italy 

removed,  there  was  disclosed  a  profusion  of  mag- 
nificent crimson  roses  of  delicious  fragrance;  below 
these  the  hamper  contained  choice  fruit  in  variety 
and  abundance,  together  with  dainty  caprices  of 
chocolate,  almonds,  marrons,  and  the  like  in  enticing 
tinted  boxes,  ribbon  tied. 

Constance,  whose  surprise  had  mounted  to  a 
pitch  of  incredulous  bewilderment,  presently  dis- 
covered a  note  among  the  roses,  and  glanced  at  its 
address  with  swift  eagerness. 

"English  —  no,  American!"  she  exclaimed,  sotto 
voce,  and  read  on. 

The  note,  dated  Florence,  said  in  frank,  explicit 
terms  that  the  sender  of  the  flowers  and  fruit  was 
a  fellow  countryman  of  hers,  who,  travelling  through 
Italy,  had  chanced  to  hear  of  her  good  works  and 
devotion  to  the  poor  and  sick  in  Perugia.  Not  being 
able  to  perform  such  service  himself,  he  asked  the 
privilege  of  seeking  to  soften  her  own  personal  life 
in  some  small  degree  by  sending  trifles  like  the  en- 
closed from  time  to  time.  As  the  writer  was  even 
then  leaving  Florence,  not  to  return  again,  and  had 
taken  the  liberty  to  arrange  the  matter  in  that  city 
before  he  left,  there  could  be  no  question  of  accepting 
or  rejecting  on  her  part,  nor  of  acknowledgment.  If 
the  small  matters  received  unhappily  failed  to  please, 
she  could  distribute  them  in  any  way  she  chose. 

The  figure  instantly  conjured  before  Constance's 


Virtues  in  Relief  205 

imagination  by  this  note  was  of  The  Benefactor, 
precise  and  unmistakable,  —  a  bald-headed  American 
milhonaire  of  comfortable  proportions,  fatherly  man- 
ners, and  philanthropic  tendencies.  For  a  moment 
she  visualized  him  with  unquestioning  satisfaction. 
Then,  womanlike,  her  thoughts  came  back  to  herself, 
and  the  first  calmness  of  a  somewhat  impersonal 
gratitude  was  touched  by  sudden,  poignant  self-pity, 
an  emotion  to  which  she  was  unused. 

"  I  am  so  hungry !  " 

The  girl  sobbed  the  English  words  to  herself,  but 
Gina,  whose  hard  brown  hand  was  laid  upon  her 
head  with  incredible  tenderness,  winked  away  the 
tears  from  her  sunken  old  eyes,  and  understood. 
For  love,  for  language,  for  food,  for  fragrance,  for 
warmth  and  colour,  for  the  human  touch  of  spirit 
with  spirit,  her  Signorina  was  starving,  although, 
perhaps,  until  then,  she  had  not  fully  known  it. 

Meanwhile,  the  Itahan  memorandum  sent  by 
Signor  Mignini  and  the  anonymous  American  note 
sent  from  Florence  were  crushed  into  intimate  con- 
tact under  a  heavy  sheaf  of  roses,  without  betraying 
by  the  curve  of  a  hne  that  they  were  possessed  of 
the  smallest  consanguinity. 

On  the  following  morning  at  seven  o'clock,  an 
hour  when  she  could  be  quite  safe  from  either  fores- 
tieri  or  students  of  the  technical  school  adjoining  the 
Oratory,  the  only  persons  likely  to  disturb  her  at  her 


206  The  Spell  of  Italy 

work,  Constance  began  the  study  of  the  Purita 
ordered  through  Mignini. 

As  she  passed  along  the  Aquedotto  to  her  work 
in  the  early  morning  freshness,  she  had  looked  over 
into  the  garden  of  Number  23  on  the  lower  level  of 
the  Via  Appia.  The  perennials  in  this  garden  were 
her  peculiar  delight,  never  passed  without  notice. 
Among  them  she  now  observed  the  Roman  archeol- 
ogist,  Signor  Massa,  sitting  at  a  rustic  table,  with 
his  morning  newspaper  and  chocolate.  Constance 
knew  the  gentleman  by  sight  now  very  well.  Had 
he  not  once  helped  her  up  the  Via  dei  Priori  in  the 
storm?  Nor  was  she  at  all  surprised  at  his  presence 
in  the  garden  down  there.  The  Famiglia  Cetti  had 
exulted  openly,  as  the  Signorina  knew  from  Gina, 
in  their  distinguished  lodger,  who  was  perfectly  un- 
derstood to  be  conducting  serious  work  of  highest 
importance  among  the  Etruscan  remains  at  the 
University,  and  who  had  preferred  their  ultimo  piano 
to  all  the  grandeurs  of  the  Brufani.  To  be  sure  it 
was  near  his  work,  but  it  must  have  been  highly 
recommended ! 

Thus  it  was  also  not  surprising  when,  on  the  second 
morning  of  her  work  on  the  pan(4  of  the  Purita, 
Constance  observed  that  Signor  Massa,  with  a  sur- 
veyor's line  in  his  hand,  was  busily  engaged,  even  at 
that  early  houi",  in  taking  measurements  of  the 
Etruscan  gate  of  San  Luca,  hard  by  San  Bernardino. 


PURITA,    BY    DUCCIO. 


Virtues  in  Relief  207 

Presently  he  strolled  across  the  little  green  and 
stood  not  far  from  her  camp-stool,  lifting  his  hat 
with  the  unsmiling  courtesy  of  an  Itahan.  A  bit 
of  talk  followed  concerning  the  rehefs,  the  identity 
of  Duccio,  and  Ms  relation  to  the  della  Robbia  family, 
during  which  Constance  worked  on  steadily,  speaking 
briefly  and  not  lifting  her  eyes  from  her  drawing- 
board.  This  morning  hght  was  precious,  she  had  her 
commission  to  fill,  her  five-and-twenty  Ure  to  earn, 
and  however  illustrious  this  Roman  scholar  might  be, 
it  was  of  little  concern  to  her. 


All  the  while  Massey  was  studying  in  eager,  side- 
long glances  the  pure,  pathetic  face  under  its  black 
scarf,  bent  over  the  drawing-board;  the  sure,  trained 
touch  of  the  flexible  hand;  the  unconscious  dignity 
and  grace  of  the  attitude.  And  still  she  was  the 
Pazienza.  Still  there  rested  upon  her  young  shoulders 
the  weight  of  that  invisible  yoke  of  sorrow,  of  dep- 
rivation, of  lonehness.  So  palpably  was  this  yoke 
present  to  his  sense,  so  keen  his  pang  that  this  queenly 
creature  should  thus  bend  to  bear  it,  that  tears  rose 
unconsciously  to  Massey's  eyes  as  he  watched  her. 
With  them  rose  a  swelling  tide  of  passionate  protest 
and  a  strong  renewal  of  mascuHne  determination 
to  lift  that  yoke,  to  transform  the  submissive,  un- 
awakened  Pazienza  into  her  counterpart  across  the 


208  The  Spell  of  Italy 

portal,  —  Purita,  the  sweet  man's  woman  with  UHes 
instead  of  a  yoke,  with  the  head  Hfted  to  the  sun. 

"  The  figure  you  are  drawing  is  the  most  beautiful 
of  the  sequence  enclosing  the  doors,"  he  said,  pres- 
ently. 

"  You  find  it  so?  The  Pazienza  appeals  to  me  more 
strongly.  But  then  many  do  not  fancy  her  nose 
being  fractured." 

"  It  is  the  yoke  I  object  to." 

Silence. 

"  Do  you  not  see  that  this  Purita,  which  is  plainly 
the  purity  of  perfect  love  and  joy,  not  of  austerity,  — 
indeed,  I  should  name  her  Joy,  —  is  the  higher  con- 
ception? " 

"  I  see  the  Purita  is  more  visibly  beautiful.  The 
pose  pleases,  while  that  of  the  Pazienza,  for  some 
persons,  is  painful." 

"  I  do  not  mean  the  pose,  nor  even  the  extraordi- 
nary beauty  of  the  Purita.  I  mean  that  the  concep- 
tion of  a  pure  and  heavenly,  yet  human  joy,  is  a 
better  thing,  essentially,  than  that  other  conception 
of  endurance,  of  the  bending  to  bear  a  burden  of 
sorrow,  of  loss,  whatever  it  may  be." 

"  But  no,  I  cannot  agree  with  that.  It  is  the  pagan 
view.  The  Pazienza  is  the  Christian  conception 
peculiarly." 

"  It  is  a  phase.  It  has  a  place.  To  perpetuate  it 
is  a  mistake.    Do  you  see?    It  cannot  be  eternal,  else 


Virtues  in  Relief  209 

what  were  heaven?  Patience  has  not  immortality; 
it  is  a  transient  thing,  to  be  left  behind  as  soon  as 
may  be.  It  is  love  and  joy  Hke  that  of  the  Purita 
which  are  immortal,  which  have  part  in  the  Hfe 
everlasting." 

Something  in  his  voice  caused  her  involuntarily  to 
look  up  and  meet  his  eyes.  They  were  clouded  and 
stern  with  a  trouble  she  failed  to  interpret,  and  some- 
thing wholly  mysterious  to  her  in  their  look  made  her 
tremble. 

"  Then  you  think  it  is  only  happiness  which  is 
religious?  "  she  asked,  turning  back  and  drawing  a 
bold  line  with  a  single  stroke  of  her  pencil  for  the 
lily  stalk. 

"  No,"  he  said,  very  gently.  "  There  is  religion  in 
the  Patience,  something  indeed  of  the  divine;  never- 
theless, to  bear  a  yoke  when  one  might  wear  a  crown, 
not  to  know  when  the  yoke  has  been  transformed 
into  a  sceptre,  —  you  are  drawing  it  there  at  this 
moment  in  the  hand  of  your  Purita,  —  that  would 
be,  I  am  confident,  irreligious.  If  you  think  it 
through  carefully  I  beHeve  you  will  agree  with  me, 
Signorina." 

Massey  added  the  last  sentence  with  a  return  to 
the  formaUty  of  casual  interchange  between  strangers, 
bowed  and  crossed  the  green  to  proceed  with  his 
examination  of  the  line  of  the  Etruscan  wall.  He 
took  care  to  avoid  an  encounter  with  Constance  for 


210  The  Spell  of  Italy 

a  good  week  following,  passing  her  occasionally  in 
silence,  on  the  Via  Appia  or  the  Aqucdotto,  with 
respectful  but  distant  salutation.  Thus  he  hoped  to 
neutralize  his  one  outbreak  of  ardent  feeling,  to  leave 
the  seed  sown  to  germinate  in  silence.  Without  per- 
sonal curiosity,  interest,  or  desire,  without  glance  to 
betray  the  man's  ardom'  toward  her,  the  woman, 
without  overture,  they  must  meet  and  go  their 
diverse  ways,  until,  if  the  heavens  were  propitious, 
there  should  dawn  within  her  some  faint  sense  of 
attraction  toward  himself,  if  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  of  his  aloofness. 

Meanwhile  he  fancied  he  detected,  when  he  passed 
her,  an  unaccustomed  elasticity  in  her  step,  a  lessen- 
ing of  the  pallor  and  the  sorrowful  hauteur  of  her 
face,  a  more  eartlily  and  girHsh  animation  in  her  eye, 
sometimes  a  smile  tucked  decorously  into  the  dimples 
about  her  lips.  The  casements  under  the  crumpled 
tiles  of  the  Casa  del  Ponte  stood  open  now  morning 
and  evening,  he  noted,  and  on  the  sills  appeared  jars 
of  flowers,  never  grown  in  Perugia.  Thus  Massey 
felt  the  two  lines  by  which  he  was  deliberately  laying 
siege  to  the  green  door  silently  converging.  When 
these  met,  somewhere,  somehow,  —  he  had  full 
prescience  that  the  times  and  seasons  would  be  be- 
yond his  control,  —  he  must  "  stand  ready  to  strike 
once  and  strike  no  more." 

One  day,  growing  impatient,  he  tried  to  grasp  the 


Virtues  in  Relief  211 

situation  with  a  strong  hand,  putting  it  to  the  touch 
to  win  or  lose  it  aU.  He  had  been  at  lunch  in  the 
Corso  with  Doctor  Alfani,  who  had  recounted  to 
him  certain  features  in  a  very  interesting  case  then 
in  hand,  that  of  the  Contessa  Mandorla.  The 
beautiful  Villa  Mandorla  abutted  on  the  city  wall, 
near  San  Bernardino;  Massey  knew  it  well.  Since 
the  birth  of  a  still-born  infant,  the  Contessa,  a 
charming  woman,  plainly  Alfani's  most  illustrious 
patient,  had  sunk  into  melancholy  accompanied 
with  low  fever  of  a  most  stubborn  character. 
The  doctor  was  seriously  disturbed,  Massey  per- 
ceived, his  anxiety  at  the  moment  being  aug- 
mented by  the  fact  that  a  highly  recommended 
nurse,  imported  from  Siena,  had  failed  to  alleviate 
the  condition  of  the  Contessa  in  any  appreciable 
degree. 

"  In  fact,"  Alfani  declared,  "  I  would  get  rid  of 
the  Sienese  altogether  this  minute  if  I  could,  and 
whether  or  no  I  shall  have  Sister  Pazienza  back  this 
very  evening,  for  the  night  nursing.  She  is  the  only 
person  who  has  ever  been  able  to  control  the  Contessa, 
and  I  was  a  precious  fool  to  let  her  go  when  I  did. 
There  is  a  relation  there  of  long  standing;  the  Con- 
tessa was  devoted  to  the  mother  of  Pazienza.  By 
the  way,  our  Uttle  sister  is  growing  as  pretty  as  a  rose; 
something  of  human  warmth  and  colour  is  dawning 
there.     Per  Bacco,  Signore,  there  is   a   face  worth 


212  The  Spell  of  Italy 

looking  at  under  that  black  cowl  if  one  had  time  for 
a  bit  of  relaxation." 

Massey  rose  and,  excusing  himself,  haughtily  left 
the  place  and  straightway  started  homeward.  He 
passed  the  Cettis'  house,  however,  walked  along  the 
Aquedotto,  and  knocked  boldly  at  the  door  of  Number 
10.  He  had  a  perfectly  plausible  errand,  and  below 
it  a  perfectly  explicit  purpose;  this  girl  was  to  know 
that  she  was  not  without  a  guard  of  honour  as  she 
came  and  went  her  lonely  way. 

The  hon's  head  smiting  the  panels  of  the  green 
door  awakened  harsh  reverberations  within  the 
recesses  of  the  covered  bridge.  Then  silence  fell. 
Footsteps  followed,  and  Massey's  pulses  quickened 
as  the  latch  was  pressed  and  at  last  the  green  door 
swung  on  its  hinges  for  Iiim.  Behind  it  stood  Gina, 
who  made  obsequious  reverence,  and  yet  wore  no 
welcome  on  her  grim  old  face  for  him  or  any  other 
stranger.  Nevertheless  he  caught  at  last  a  glimpse 
of  what  lay  behind  the  green  door.  The  walls  of  the 
passage  bore  faded  and  pallid  frescoes;  at  intervals 
stood  tubs  of  prim,  close-cHpped  euonymus.  At  the 
far  end  of  the  covered  way  the  door  was  thrown  wide. 
Down  the  long  and  dim  vista  he  saw,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  scene  on  a  stage  viewed  through  a  glass,  a  slender, 
girlish  figure  bending  over  a  poHshed  table  on  which 
were  flowers  and  a  glass  bowl  of  water,  which  caught 
and  scattered  the  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun.    He  had 


Virtues  in  Relief  213 

never  seen  Constance  without  her  black  draperies. 
Even  from  that  distance  the  contour  and  poise 
of  her  head,  free  and  firm  yet  dehcate,  were  a 
discovery  which  thrilled  him  with  an  artist's  satis- 
faction. 

He  insisted  with  some  imperiousness  upon  speak- 
ing to  the  Signorina  on  a  matter  of  business,  at  the 
same  time  placing  in  Gina's  hand  an  envelope  con- 
taining twenty-five  lire.  In  another  moment  Con- 
stance stood  before  him,  the  reluctant  Gina  having 
withdrawn  to  the  inner  door,  where  she  stood  stiffly 
as  if  on  guard. 

"  You  will  pardon  my  intrusion,  Signorina," 
Massey  began,  with  business-Hke  conciseness;  "it 
is  in  the  matter  of  the  sketch  from  the  San  Bernar- 
dino for  which  you  have,  I  beUeve,  received  my  com- 
mission through  Signor  Mignini.  As  I  have  left  the 
hotel,  it  will  be  better  for  you  not  to  send  the  draw- 
ing there." 

A  vivid  colour  rose  to  Constance's  cheeks.  Soon 
it  tinged  her  throat  even  to  the  narrow  white  line 
of  embroidery  which  showed  above  her  square- 
necked  gown,  such  a  border  as  Bonfigli  used  to  give 
his  angels.  She  wore  a  handful  of  Banksia  roses  at 
her  belt.  The  texture  of  her  beauty  matched  them  in 
fineness.  They  were  his  roses!  Massey  glanced 
aside,  lest  the  exultation  in  his  eyes  should  betray 
him,  for  in  that  moment  he  found  the  troubadour 


214  The  Spell  of  Italy 

sentiment  which  had  at  first  inspired  him  trans- 
muted into  a  man's  passion,  full  statiu-ed, 

"  The  sketch  is  finished,"  said  Constance.  "  I  was 
about  to  send  it." 

This  was  as  he  expected. 

"  I  did  not  know,  Signore,"  she  added,  difiidently, 
"  that  it  was  for  you." 

"  I  supposed  I  mentioned  it,"  he  returned,  "  one 
day  when  we  spoke  together." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  that  day  when  you  were  so  sure 
that  the  Purita  was  better  than  the  Pazienza,"  and 
she  smiled,  but  her  eyes  fell,  as  if  troubled  in  meeting 
his. 

"  Are  you  not  convinced  that  I  was  right,  now, 
after  your  longer  study?  "   he  asked,  quickly. 

"  It  is  good  to  be  glad  when  one  can,"  she  replied, 
after  a  little  pause.  Then,  as  if  suddenly  recalling 
the  fact  that  this  was  a  purely  business  interview, 
she  turned  from  him  and  gave  a  rapid  order  to 
Gina. 

Behind  Massey,  on  the  pavement,  a  child  had  been 
standing  since  the  door  first  opened,  a  crippled  and 
twisted  little  fellow,  who  belonged  somewhere  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  often  hung  about  the  Aquedotto. 
When  Constance  turned  back,  she  observed  the  child, 
and,  holding  out  hor  hand,  said,  gently:  "Come  in, 
Vittorio.  There  is  a  flower  for  thee  in  yonder  and 
sweetmeats." 


Virtues  in  Relief  215 

The  small,  pinched  face  of  the  cripple  was  sud- 
denly enlightened  by  a  sinile  of  positive  rapture. 

"  The  good  God  has  been  busy  again,  then,  Suora 
Pazienza?  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  exquisite 
sweetness,  and  followed  Gina,  who  had  just  placed 
a  portfolio  in  the  Signorina's  hand. 

Constance  watched  the  child  as  he  swung  down  the 
passage  on  his  crutch  after  the  old  woman.  Massey 
saw  that  tears  had  sprung  to  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  like  Christmas  with  me  all  the  days  now," 
she  said,  as  if  some  explanation  were  needed.  "  A 
benevolent  person  whom  I  do  not  know,  but,  you  see, 
a  Benefactor,  sends  fruit  and  jQowers  to  us  constantly, 
so  that  we  live  Hke  the  very  rich,"  and  she  laughed 
with  sudden,  childish  gleefulness  in  the  thought  of 
her  mysterious  luxury.  "  Vittorio  thinks  it  is  the 
good  God  himself  taking  care  of  us." 

"  Not  a  bad  idea,"  Massey  returned  lightly,  dis- 
guising a  very  keen  emotion.  "  But  you  are  much 
kinder  to  Vittorio,  I  observe,  than  you  are  to  me.  He 
is  bidden  to  enter  and  have  flowers  and  sweetmeats. 
I  am  not  suffered  to  cross  the  thi'eshold." 

"  It  is  unfortunate,"  she  said  with  serious  sim- 
pUcity,  "  but  you  see,  it  is  not  convenable.  I  can  do 
no  otherwise." 

"  I  see  perfectly,  and  even  if  you  asked  me  to  enter 
your  Paradise,"  and  he  made  a  motion  of  one  hand 
toward   the   distant   inner  door,    "  I   should   forbid 


216  The  Spell  of  Italy 

myself,  for  your  sake,  and  if  another  should  intrude 
upon  you  anywhere,  in  any  sort,  depend  upon  me 
to  deal  with  him.    Remember,  you  can  command  me." 

She  bent  her  head  in  gravely  surprised  assent. 

"  Nevertheless,  Signorina,"  Massey  continued,  and 
sudden  prophetic  passion  made  his  voice  low  and 
subduing,  "it  is  my  devout,  my  rehgious  faith  that 
one  day  you  will  open  this  door  yourself  to  me  and 
bid  me  enter.    Good  night." 

The  sketch  was  already  in  his  hand.  In  another 
moment  he  heard  the  green  door  close  as  he  walked 
away,  trembling  physically  with  the  reaction  of  his 
own  unpremeditated  onrush  of  daring. 

VI 

November  was  a  month  of  perpetual  wind  and  rain 
that  year  in  Perugia.  But  there  came,  in  a  week  of 
desolating  storm,  one  morning  of  perfidious  bright- 
ness. Having  worked  several  hours  in  the  library 
of  the  University,  Massey  came  down  at  noon  to 
find,  to  his  surprise,  that  the  clouds  had  returned, 
that  the  Piazza  outside  the  vaulted  entrance  was 
flooded,  and  the  rain  was  pouring  again  in  torrents. 
Having  sent  the  facchino  for  a  cab,  he  turned  away 
and,  escaping  the  noisy  throng  of  outgoing  students, 
he  stood  absorbed  in  looking  over  a  handful  of  loose 
sheets  filled  with  notes,  the  fruit  of  liis  morning's 
work. 


Virtues  in  Relief  217 

Suddenly  he  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder.  To  his 
unqualified  surprise,  the  Signorina  Constance  stood 
at  his  side.  He  had  not  seen  her  in  weeks,  except 
as  she  passed  below  his  window  in  the  early  mornings, 
returning  from  her  night  duty  at  the  Villa  Mandorla. 
The  black  scarf  had  fallen  from  her  head  and  lay 
heavy  with  moisture  on  her  shoulders;  a  vivid  bloom, 
the  result  of  haste  and  excitement,  was  on  her  cheeks, 
and  she  panted  for  breath. 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  Signore,"  she  cried,  in  her 
soft,  rapid  Italian,  "  can  you  tell  me  where  I  may  find 
Doctor  Alfani  at  this  hour?  He  is  wanted  at  once, 
but  at  once,  you  understand,  at  the  Villa  Mandorla. 
The  Contessa  is  suddenly  much  worse.  It  is  a  collapse. 
We  fear  the  worst.  I  have  left  her  with  the  nurse 
from  Siena  and  have  hurried  here  thinking  to  find 
il  Dottore." 

"  You  have  not  been  allowed  to  come  on  foot  all 
this  distance,  in  this  storm !  " 

"  Si,  si,  si,  Signore,"  was  the  hasty  reply.  "  That 
is  not  important.  It  was  the  quickest  way.  // 
Dottore  —  where  is  he?    Do  you  know?  " 

"  Yes,  as  it  happens,  I  know.  He  had  an  opera- 
tion at  the  hospital  at  noon  to-day,  a  sHght  affair. 
He  cannot  have  left  there  yet,  however." 

Constance  turned  swiftly.  Massey  followed  her 
to  the  outer  doorway.  The  carriage  he  had  ordered 
for  himself  was  at  the  moment  driven  up.    The  rain 


218  The  Spell  of  Italy 

streamed  from  the  coachman's  hat  brim.  Without 
ceremony  he  placed  the  girl  within  the  cab,  ordered 
the  man  to  drive  at  utmost  speed  to  the  hospital, 
then  entered  himself  and  closed  the  door  upon  the 
beating  rain.  As  they  rattled  on  over  the  rough 
cobblestones,  the  grim  Perugia  streets  shut  out  from 
sight  by  the  milky  mist  which  condensed  into  drops 
on  the  carriage  windows,  Massey  felt  that  despite 
this  enforced  closeness  of  proximity,  he  had  in  reality 
never  been  farther  from  Constance.  Her  spirit,  he 
perceived,  was  far  from  him,  uplifted  in  urgency  of 
prayer  for  the  life  of  her  friend  as  she  sat  motionless 
by  his  side  with  drooping  eyelids  and  quiet,  folded 
hands.  He  would  not  have  dared  to  speak  or  to  seek, 
in  any  way,  however  sHght,  to  make  his  presence 
felt;  none  the  less  the  dilapidated  carriage,  with  its 
soggy  cushions  smelhng  of  wet  and  ancient  woollen, 
seemed  to  him  just  then  to  enclose  a  little  heaven. 
They  halted  for  a  few  moments  at  the  hospital. 
Massey  dashed  in  and  returned  promptly,  bringing 
with  him  Alfani.  The  doctor,  flushed  and  nervous, 
took  the  seat  facing  Constance,  whom  he  scarcely 
greeted.  Plainly  he  was  angered  by  the  tidings  from 
his  patient.  The  Contessa  was  highly  important  to 
him,  with  his  expensive  family  and  the  new  villa 
in  the  Rione  Sole.  He  paid  scant  attention  as  well 
to  Massey,  the  accident  of  whose  presence  seemed  to 
him  immaterial. 


Virtues  in  Relief  219 

"  How  did  this  happen?  " 

Alfani  asked  the  abrupt  question  with  sharp,  un- 
concealed displeasure.  Constance  faced  him  anxiously, 
with  the  humility  of  a  subordinate  in  her  face;  the 
yoke  of  the  Pazienza  seemed  to  Massey's  fancy  to 
rest  just  then  visibly  upon  her  shoulders. 

"  We  do  not  understand,"  she  said  low  and  hur- 
riedly. "  All  seemed  to  be  going  well,  even  better 
than  before.  Then,  suddenly,  the  heart  action 
became  irregular,  and  this  collapse  followed.  Of 
course  we  used  all  the  usual  stimulants." 

Brusque,  impatient  questions  followed  in  rapid 
succession;  each  received  quiet,  exphcit  answer. 

Then  suddenly  with  a  strong  gesture  of  repro- 
bation, Alfani  exclaimed: 

"  All  this  makes  not  the  slightest  difference !  If 
you  had  followed  my  directions  this  misfortune  could 
not  have  occurred!" 

Constance  was  silent,  but  every  vestige  of  colour 
ebbed  gradually  from  her  face.  Massey's  rage  reached 
a  cUmax.  He  glanced  at  the  girl's  white  face;  her 
lips  trembled  like  a  child's ;  unshed  tears  hung  on  her 
eyelashes,  and  yet  she  lifted  her  head  with  uncon- 
scious loftiness,  and  turned  away  from  Alfani,  there 
being  plainly  nothing  more  to  be  said  between  them. 
The  doctor's  lips  wore  a  sardonic  sneer  and  an  almost 
malignant  frown  contracted  his  handsome  eyebrows. 
It  was  easy  to  guess  that  Constance  might  expect 


220  The  Spell  of  Italy 

little  mercy  at  his  hands  if  worst  came  to  worst. 
Massey  knew  that  the  doctor  did  not  speak  English. 
Without  lowering  his  voice,  but  with  the  ceremoni- 
ousness  of  the  strong  constraint  he  was  forced  to 
put  upon  himself,  Massey  deliberately  addressed  her 
in  his  own  language. 

"  Miss  Constance,  may  I  say  a  word?  " 

The  girl  turned  and  looked  up  in  his  face  in  acute 
surprise.  These  were  the  first  words  of  English  she 
had  ever  heard  him  speak. 

"  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  take  care  of  this 
matter  for  you,"  he  continued  earnestly.  "  It  can- 
not be  permitted  that  this  man  should  speak  to  you 
in  this  way,  or  should  lay  upon  you  the  responsibility 
which  belongs  on  his  own  shoulders.  I  protest! 
Only  a  coward  could  address  you  as  he  has  done. 
I  beg  you,  let  me  tell  him  that  you  withdraw  from 
the  case  at  this  point.  You  are  certainly  justified 
in  doing  so." 

While  he  was  speaking  the  eyes  of  Constance  were 
fastened  to  his  face,  the  extremity  of  her  amazement 
at  his  use  of  her  native  language  making  her  almost 
unable  to  take  in  the  tenor  of  his  words. 

"But,  Signore,  it  is  incredible!"  she  cried,  then 
extended  her  hand  in  frank  and  fearless  recognition. 
"  How  can  I  have  been  so  mistaken?  Then  you  are 
not  Roman?    Not  ItaHan  even?" 

"  No." 


Virtues  in  Relief  221 

"  Nor  English?  " 

Massey  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  you  are  of  my  own  country,  and  —  "  she 
broke  off  suddenly  while  wave  after  wave  of  colour 
broke  over  the  pallor  of  her  face. 

Massey,  divining  that  the  two  lines  of  his  attack 
might  be  nearing  the  converging  point,  and  that  she 
saw  herself  perhaps  surrounded,  cried  urgently : 

"  But  you  do  not  answer!  I  beg  you  will  let  me 
act  for  you  in  this  matter." 

The  carriage  stopped.  Alfani  was  bursting  open 
the  door  with  frantic  haste. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  said  gently.  "  It  is  not  needed. 
The  worst  is  not  to  happen.  If  it  were  —  could  I 
be  glad  as  I  am  at  this  moment?  " 

For  an  instant  her  eyes  wide  with  a  child's  wonder 
met  his,  her  hand  rested  in  the  clasp  of  his;  then  she 
vanished  behind  the  garden  door  mth  Alfani.  Massey 
gave  the  word  to  the  coachman  and  was  driven  on 
alone  to  the  Via  Appia. 

For  forty-eight  hours  Massey  brooded  over  an 
inward  and  spiritual  game  of  chess.  The  next  move 
would  be  crucial;  it  must  mean  capitulation  for  one 
or  the  other.  He  feared  checkmate  for  himself  if 
he  moved  too  swiftly,  and  accordingly  held  back. 
Constance  did  not  pass  by  the  Via  Appia  on  the 
mornings  immediately  follo\\dng,  which  was  not  sur- 
prising, as  the  crisis  of  the  Contessa's  illness  would 


222  The  Spell  of  Italy 

involve  her  remaining  at  the  villa.  He  inquired  of 
Alfani  concerning  the  condition  of  his  patient  and 
received  a  reply  of  insolent  carelessness  implying 
that  he  could  probably  learn  what  he  cared  to  know 
of  the  nurses.  Plainly  il  Dottore  understood  the 
significance  of  a  few  English  words  after  all.  His 
insinuation  maddened  Massey,  but,  although  he 
could  not  again  speak  to  the  doctor,  he  forbore  a 
quarrel  for  Constance's  sake.  For  the  same  reason 
it  was  impossible  for  liim  to  knock  again  at  the  green 
door,  but  on  the  third  morning,  as  he  passed  on  the 
Aquedotto  through  mist  and  rain,  he  was  startled 
to  discover  that  the  pots  of  flowers  had  vanished 
from  the  windows  of  the  Casa  del  Ponte,  and  the 
shutters  were  fast  closed.  A  few  steps  farther,  as 
he  walked  on  with  a  chilling  weight  of  dismay  at  his 
heart,  he  saw  the  crippled  lad  Vittorio,  cUnging  for- 
lornly to  the  wet  parapet. 

"  Va  bene  V  he  asked,  stopping. 

The  child  shook  his  head  disconsolately;  his  face 
was  more  wan  and  pinched  than  ever  before,  Massey 
fancied. 

"  No,  no,  no,  Signore,"  he  replied, "  va  bene  never  any 
more.    She  is  gone  away,  all  gone,  for  good  and  all." 

Massey  asked  no  more  explicit  account;  there  was 
no  question  of  whom  Vittorio  spoke. 

"  You  know  it?  "  he  said  simply,  feeUng  his  own 
face  grow  gray. 


Virtues  in  Relief  223 

"  Si,  si,  si,  Signorc.  I  had  it  from  Gina,  but  now 
she  has  gone  also,  perhaps  to  the  Signorina.  I  do 
not  know." 

"  Gone  where?  " 

The  boy  shook  his  head  hopelessly. 

Massey  shpped  a  handful  of  coppers  into  the 
yawning  pocket  of  the  little  ragged  jacket  and  passed 
on.  Perugia,  modern,  mediaeval,  Augustan,  Etruscan, 
crumbled  for  him  in  that  moment  to  ashes  and  dust. 

At  the  end  of  the  Aquedotto  he  glanced  back, 
through  the  fine  rain  which  fell,  at  the  Casa  del 
Ponte.  Never  had  the  green  door  worn  an  aspect 
so  mysterious;  never  had  it  appeared  so  impene- 
trably sealed. 

It  was  checkmate  beyond  a  doubt.  The  citadel 
had  resisted  his  siege. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Massey  sat  at  an  unwonted 
horn'  of  the  morning  at  his  desk  in  the  apartment 
on  the  Cettis'  ultimo  piano,  his  belongings  scattered 
in  confusion  about  him.  His  work  was  over  at  the 
University.  He  was  to  leave  Perugia  on  the  following 
day.  So  much  was  decided.  Where  he  was  to  go 
next  remained  still  unsettled,  but  he  inchned  to 
Boston  and  had  written  to  Naples  and  to  Genoa  for 
sailing  Hsts.  There  was  work  enough  to  do  still  in 
Rome  and  otherwhere  before  he  could  write  his  book, 
but  why  should  he  write  a  book?  He  could  think  of 
no  reason.    Furthermore,  all  Italy  had  lost  its  charm 


224  The  Spell  of  Italy 

for  him;  the  dust  and  ashes  of  his  bhghted  Perugia 
had  fallen  over  all. 

A  daughter  of  the  Famiglia  Cetti  rapped  on  his 
door  and  held  out  a  letter  in  a  business  envelope; 
he  could  see  that  the  postmark  was  Genoa  and  the 
address  in  the  handwriting  of  a  stranger. 

"  Lay  it  on  the  table,  please,"  he  said  indifferently 
and  returned  to  his  pile  of  papers.  No  doubt  this 
letter  contained  the  sailing  lists  he  had  sent  for. 

"  May  it  bring  joy,  Signore,"  said  the  girl  cheerfully. 
"  For  us,  we  grieve  that  you  depart,  but  you  come 
again  to  Perugia  when  the  fine  weather  returns,  is  it 
not  true?    Rome  is  not  so  far." 

"  No,  no,  Maria,"  he  answered.  "  I  am  not  going 
to  Rome  now.  I  shall  sail  for  America  very  soon, 
probably  next  week." 

The  girl  expressed  despair,  admiration,  awe,  and 
wonder  in  a  lively  gamut  of  exclamations,  then 
withdrew. 

Massey  lifted  some  papers  covering  two  pictures 
which  had  been  uppermost  upon  his  desk  before 
Maria's  knock.  They  were  the  pastel  Pazienza  and 
Purita,  the  one  as  full  of  pathos,  the  other  as  serene 
in  her  joy  as  ever.  As  he  hung  over  them,  worship 
was  in  his  eyes  until  they  grew  dim  with  the  passion 
of  his  pain. 

"  "Where  is  she  fled?  "  he  cried,  "  and  was  it  I 
she  feared,  and  I  from  whom  she  fled?    Which  is  she 


Virtues  in  Relief  225 

now?  —  the  Pazienza  bearing  somewhere  in  silence 
a  yoke  even  heavier  than  before,  or  this  other?  If  I 
could  but  see  her  with  her  head  hfted  free  for  ever 
like  this,  her  lips  proud  and  glad,  I  would  be  willing 
never  again  to  see  her  —  ah!"  He  rose  with  an 
impatient  gesture,  exclaiming  aloud: 

"  That  was  a  lie  and  a  useless  one  into  the  bargain !  " 
For  a  moment  he  paced  the  room  stormily,  then, 
his  eyes  fixing  themselves  upon  the  letter  lying  on  the 
table,  it  occurred  to  him  that,  although  tiresome, 
it  might  not  be  unsuitable  to  learn  whether  he  could 
get  passage  to  Boston  from  Genoa  the  coming  week. 
He  tore  open  the  envelope  with  a  hasty,  careless 
hand,  and  in  the  next  moment  felt  himself  guilty  of 
profanation.  For  the  letter  was  from  Constance 
herself,  written  to  give  him  the  explanation  clearly, 
she  said,  his  due. 

She  was  in  Genoa,  ready  in  an  hour  to  sail  for 
Palermo  with  the  Contessa  Mandorla.  They  were 
to  spend  the  winter  in  Sicily,  but  they  hoped  to  keep 
Easter  in  Rome  with  all  troubles  passed.  It  had 
been  necessary  to  leave  Perugia  without  delay  and 
they  had  come  with  extreme  haste.  The  alarming 
depression  of  a  week  ago  had  proved  to  be  merely 
incidental  to  the  breaking  up  at  last  of  the  fever. 
The  Contessa  had  gained  ground  ever  since  that  day. 
For  herself,  she  had  begun  to  believe  that  she  owed 
to  Massey  much  more  than  she  dared  to  know  unless 


226  The  Spell  of  Italy 

he  chose  that  she  should;  much  more  in  another 
sense  than  he  could  guess.  If  they  should  ever  meet 
again,  some  things  might  be  better  understood. 

In  a  letter  to  his  father  in  Cambridge,  posted  the 
following  morning  before  he  took  the  train  for  Rome, 
Massey  gave  a  general  outline  of  his  plans  for  the 
winter.  It  would  be  best  for  him  to  spend  several 
weeks  at  least  among  the  old  Greek  remains  of  Sicily, 
after  which  it  was  his  intention  to  settle  down  in 
Rome  and  forge  ahead  with  his  book,  now  fast  as- 
suming proportions  in  his  brain. 

"  If  you  ask  me  when  I  mean  to  return  home," 
the  letter  concluded,  *'  I  must  remind  you  that  last 
August  you  almost  interdicted  my  return  until  I 
could  bring  a  wife  with  me.  I  am  hard  at  work, 
believe  me,  in  the  matter,  but  it  may  take  time.  If 
I  win  the  girl  I  love,  I  must  tell  you,  however,  that 
she  will  not  be  wholly  Italian,  as  you  wished,  neither 
quite  American,  as  you  feared,  but  angeUc  altogether 
and  dear  to  God  and  Heaven." 

VII 

The  sunset  bells  were  ringing  over  Perugia  on 
Easter  Monday,  and  vespers  were  being  sung  in  the 
Duomo  in  the  Chapel  of  San  Onofrio.  On  the  outer 
edge  of  the  small  and  scattered  company  of  worship- 
pers Massey  leaned  against  one  of  the  great  pillars 
of  the  nave,  in  order,  as  it  appeared  from  the  ex- 


Virtues  in  Relief  227 

altation  on  his  face,  to  "  hush  and  bless  himself  with 
silence." 

He  and  Constance  had  been  married  in  the  early- 
morning  in  the  private  chapel  of  the  Palazzo  Man- 
dorla  in  Rome,  and  the  noon  train  had  brought  them 
to  Perugia  an  hour  ago.  Constance  had  asked  him 
to  let  her  go  alone  to  the  Casa  del  Ponte  for  a  little 
time  that  she  might  make  sure  that  Gina,  long  since 
come  back  from  Sicily,  had  arranged  the  rooms  to 
her  mind.  Consenting  to  the  hour's  separation  some- 
what grudgingly,  Massey  had  named  the  Duomo  as 
the  place  where  he  would  await  summons. 

And  here  was  Gina  already,  clattering  up  the  aisle 
behind  him  with  an  air  of  no  small  importance,  her 
brown  face  wrinkled  with  an  ecstatic  smile. 

"  Buona  sera,  Signor  Massa,  buona  sera! "  she 
whispered  dropping  a  series  of  curtseys.  "  Si,  si,  si, 
donna  mia  is  ready  for  you.  The  casa  is  in  fine  order 
and  the  colazione  fit  for  a  palace,  and  all  without  a 
soul  in  Perugia  guessing.  Ma,  the  Aquedotto  could 
not  hold  the  poor  wretches  if  the  common  folk  had 
known  our  Santa  Pazienza  would  be  at  home  to- 
night. A  rivederla,  Signore."  Gina  had  now  dropped 
on  her  knees,  flat  on  the  pavement,  and  was  finger- 
ing her  rosary  expeditiously. 

"A  rivederla,'^  she  repeated,  turning  her  head  and 
chattering  on  untroubled  by  scruples  of  reverence. 
"  I  shall  return  to  the  casa  in  the  morning.    Now  I 


228  The  Spell  of  Italy 

must  say  a  few  prayers  for  you  and  my  lady.  It 
brings  good  luck." 

He  left  her,  still  chattering  cheerfully  over  her 
beads,  and  made  haste  to  the  Via  Appia  and  so  to 
the  green  door  on  the  Aquedotto.  All  the  hoary 
walls  of  Perugia,  the  twisted  chimneys,  and  the 
fantastic  roofs  were  gilded  with  the  Hght  of  a  bril- 
liant sunset,  and  beyond  the  city  gates  its  splendour 
flooded  the  Umbrian  plain  and  the  Tiber  Valley. 
For  dust  and  ashes,  Massey  found  again  a  city  having 
foundations  and  clothed  in  light. 

He  knocked  once,  having  paused  a  moment  the 
deeper  to  taste  the  joy  of  daring.  Constance  herself 
opened  the  door  wide,  gave  him  both  hands  and  bade 
him  enter.  He  crossed  the  threshold  then  at  last 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  She  was  dressed 
in  her  bridal  white,  ghstening  and  voluminous,  and 
behind  her  along  both  walls  of  the  covered  way  stood 
rows  of  tall  Easter  lihes,  taking  the  place  of  the  tubs 
of  clipped  euonymus. 

Before  he  spoke,  Massey  broke  off  a  tall  stem  of  the 
lilies,  and  placed  it  in  her  hand. 

"  My  queen,  by  right  divine,"  he  said,  and  kissed 
her  on  her  forehead  and  on  her  lips. 

"  Oh,  love,"  she  cried,  not  knowing  that  tears  of 
sheer  delight  fell  fast  as  she  spoke,  "  you  have  taken 
the  yoke  from  your  poor  Pazicnza  and  given  her  a 
sceptre  and  a  crown.    I  am  re-created." 


Virtues  in  Relief  229 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  you  are  yourself." 

"Come!"  she  cried,  taking  his  hand  as  if  they 
had  been  children,  and  so  she  led  him  between  the 
lihes  into  the  silence  and  the  sweetness  of  her  own 
habitation. 


xn 

THE    LITTLE    BROWN    CITY    VOWED    TO    GOD  " 

^N   the    drive    to    Assisi,    Filia,    who    had 
crammed  a  large  Life  in  the  Hbrary  of  the 
Brufani  the  night  before,  rehearsed  in  re- 
freshment of  our  memory  the  main  points 
in  the  Hfe  of    St.  Francis. 

'*  Pietro  Bernardone,  my  dear  mother,"  she  began 
impressively,  "  was  a  wealthy  cloth-merchant  of 
Assisi;  Madonna  Pica  was  his  wife;  St.  Francis  was 
their  son,  born  about  1182,  —  a  time,  you  remember, 
when  the  world  was  a  very  wicked,  stormy  feudal 
world.  It  was  also  a  busy  world  commercially,  and 
Assisi  appears  to  have  had  quite  a  thri\'ing  trade  in 
cloth,  and  to  have  been  warHke  with  the  rest.  Be- 
tween Perugia  and  Assisi  there  was  perpetual  war, 
and  this  beautiful  country  through  which  we  are 
driving  was  continually  burned  and  battled  over. 
Francis  became  a  gay  and  gallant  youth,  fond  of 
making  money  in  his  father's  shop;  also  fond  of 
spending  it  in  extravagant  revelries  and  eccentric 
pranks. 

230 


''The  Little  City  Vowed  to  God'*  231 

"  In  1202  Perugia  and  Assisi  were  fighting  as 
usual,  and  somewhere  about  here  in  the  plain,  half- 
way to  Assisi,  there  was  an  encounter  in  which 
Francis  Bernadone,  then  twenty  years  of  age,  was 
taken  prisoner  to  Perugia.  After  his  return  to  Assisi 
he  attempted  to  enter  upon  his  former  hfe  of  dissipa- 
tion, but  in  the  year  in  the  Perugian  prison  some 
serious  thoughts  seem  to  have  been  aroused  in  him, 
and,  after  a  severe  illness,  an  incipient  spiritual  crisis 
came  on.  He  made  various  useless  attempts  to 
drown  the  voices  which  called  him  to  a  dedicated 
life  by  throwing  himself  into  martial  and  social 
activities.  But  more  and  more  he  now  began  to 
withdi-aw  from  his  gay  associates  and  to  seek  seclu- 
sion in  a  certain  rocky  cave  among  the  ohve-trees. 
Gradually  the  call  to  a  spiritual  vocation  acquired 
complete  possession  of  him.  It  was  during  this 
mysterious  period  of  conflict  that  Francis,  being 
asked  on  account  of  his  silence  and  abstraction,  if 
he  were  thinking  of  taking  a  wife,  rephed: 

"  *  I  am  thinking  of  taking  a  wife  more  beautiful, 
more  rich,  more  pure,  than  you  could  ever  imagine.' 

"Lady  Poverty!" 

"  Yes,  the  supreme  moment  seems  to  have  come 
at  the  Httle  ruined  chapel  of  St.  Damian  hidden 
among  oUves  to  the  east  of  Assisi,  where  in  contem- 
plation of  the  Byzantine  crucifix  above  a  rude  stone 
altar  the  love  and  will  of  Chiist  were  fully  made 


232  The  Spell  of  Italy 

known  to  him.  From  this  time  until  the  end  of  life 
the  intimate,  mystic  communion  between  the  soul  of 
Francis  and  the  Lord  never  ceased.  He  came  out 
from  the  chapel  with  a  new  life  and  an  immediate 
purpose  in  token  of  his  consecration,  that  of  restor- 
ing the  forlorn  shrine  of  St.  Damian. 

"  There  followed  a  return  to  Assisi  and  sharp 
conflicts  with  his  father,  ending  in  complete  rupture 
with  the  family.  Then  on  his  way  back  to  St.  Damian 
in  the  mountains  he  fell  among  thieves,  who  asked 
him  who  he  was,  and  he  made  the  famous  answer, 
'  I  am  the  herald  of  the  Great  King,  but  what  is  that 
to  thee?  '  They  stripped  him  and  threw  him  into 
a  ditch,  saying,  *  There  is  thy  place,  poor  herald  of 
God.'  From  that  he  arose  and  came  singing  through 
the  forest  to  a  monastery;  he  served  in  its  kitchen, 
then  made  his  way  to  St.  Damian's.  But  before 
reaching  the  chapel  he  visited  a  leper-house  where  he 
had  once  come,  as  Sir  Launfal  is  shown  in  Lowell's 
poem,  in  all  the  brilHant  splendour  of  a  young,  con- 
quering knight.  Now  he  is  a  beggar,  naked,  hungry, 
and  outcast.  In  ministrations  to  the  lepers  Francis 
seems  to  have  entered  yet  more  deeply  than  before 
into  the  fcllowsliip  and  mind  of  Christ. 

"  His  rebuilding  of  St.  Damian's  with  stones 
begged  and  brought  by  himself  is  certainly  a  pictur- 
esque and  touching  episode.  Another  small  ruined 
shrine  was  on  this  side  of  Assisi,  Santa  Maria  degli 


"  The  Little  City  Vowed  to  God  "   233 

Angeli,  This  was  also  restored  by  Francis  with  his 
own  hands  and  called  the  Portiuncula  or  little 
portion.  Tliis  now  becomes  the  very  heart  of  the 
Franciscan  Cult,  and  here  most  of  the  legends  centre. 
We  shall  come  in  sight  of  this  church  soon,  I  think, 
as  Baedeker  says  it  stands  apart  from  the  town, 
near  the  station,  I  imagine  that  we  shall  care  com- 
paratively little  for  the  church  itself,  which  is  large 
and  pretentious,  but  much  for  what  it  encloses,  —  the 
Franciscan  Holy  of  Holies.  It  was  in  the  Portiun- 
cula that  Francis  received  what  Catholics  call  '  the 
grace  of  his  vocation  '  in  1208.  He  entered  from  that 
time  upon  the  work  of  an  apostle  and  established 
his  new  Order. 

"  The  Order  of  the  Penitents  of  Assisi,  God's 
jongleurs  they  loved  to  call  themselves,  because  they 
made  such  hght-hearted  pilgrimage,  grew  with  sur- 
prising rapidity.  Their  Rule  was  very  simple,  com- 
posed of  passages  from  the  Gospel  enjoining  Poverty, 
Purity,  and  Singlemindedness.  Presently,  the  thing 
assuming  proportions  on  his  hands,  Francis  goes  with 
eleven  brethren  to  Rome  to  seek  the  approval  of  the 
Pope,  Innocent  III,  upon  his  new  Order." 

I  broke  in  upon  Filia's  narrative  to  speak  of  the 
resemblance  between  Francis  and  Martin  Luther  at 
the  Papal  Capital  which  has  suggested  itself  to  me. 
Both  absolutely  simple,  sincere  souls,  brought  in 
the  fulness   of  a  childlike  confidence  into  contact 


234  The  Spell  of  Italy 

with  the  crafty,  worldly  intriguing  of  Rome,  A 
situation  intensely  dramatic  always  declares  itself 
in  the  coming  together  of  pontiff  and  poor  friar. 
It  is  curious  to  compare  Sabatier  and  Hutton  on 
Innocent  III;  the  one,  the  keen  psychological 
analyst  of  motive;  the  other,  the  special  pleader 
for  the  spiritual  integrity  of  the  Bishops  of  Rome. 

''  I  can  quite  imagine,"  continued  Filia,  "  how 
homesick  the  poor  Penitents  were  in  Rome  among 
the  '  jeers  of  the  pontifical  lackeys '  and  how  glad 
to  get  back  to  the  free,  pure  air  of  these  Umbrian 
highlands.  It  was  in  the  year  1210,  having  at  last 
won  a  reluctant  permesso  from  Innocent,  that  Fran- 
cis's career  as  a  preacher  in  the  Duomo  of  Assisi 
and  elsewhere  began,  and  the  whole  region  became 
aroused  to  enthusiasm.  The  people  of  Assisi  just 
then  were  divided  class-wise  sharply  into  nobles  and 
burghers,  —  the  majores  and  minores.  With  his 
genius  for  penetrating  reahty  in  each  phase  of  his 
development,  Francis  seized  upon  the  suggestions  of 
these  terms  for  his  Order.  The  Brothers  were  to 
count  themselves  always  Minores,  least  of  all  and 
servants  of  all.  Brothers  Minor  henceforth  they  were 
called,  but  the  order  was  a  labouring,  not  a  mendicant 
fraternity. 

"  The  Order  became  so  large  that  a  permanent 
abode  was  needed  and  the  Benedictines  of  Mount 
Subasio  gave  in  perpetuity  to  Francis  that  dearest 


**  The  Little  City  Vowed  to  God  "   235 

shrine  of  all  to  liim,  the  Portiuncula,  The  Brothers 
built  around  this  as  centre  and  sanctuary  a  few  huts 
surrounded  by  a  quickset  hedge.  The  enclosing 
forest  was  their  cloister,  Sabatier  says.  Isn't  that 
pretty?  That  was  the  first  Franciscan  convent. 
There  the  heart  of  Francis's  life  and  ministry  was 
lived;  there  sweet  Santa  Clara  came  to  take  her 
vows  of  perpetual  poverty,  chastity,  and  obedience; 
from  there  the  irresistible  power  of  an  unreserved 
religious  consecration  rayed  out  over  all  Umbria  and 
aU  Italy." 

"  Where  was  the  convent  of  Santa  Chiara?  " 

"  Why,  you  know  I  think  that  is  one  of  the  loveUest 
touches  of  the  whole  story!  Francis  sent  her  to 
St.  Damian's  and  gave  that  humble  chapel  to  her 
as  a  conventual  foundation  for  the  Order  of  Poor 
Clares.  From  her  terrace  Clara  could  look  over  to  the 
Portiuncula.  I  am  most  eager  to  go  up  to  the  con- 
vent; for  they  say  it  has  been  kept  almost  intact 
from  the  thirteenth  century." 

"  Is  that  where  the  present  Order  of  Poor  Clares 
have  their  nunnery?  " 

"  No,  I  find  that  that  appears  to  be  connected  with 
the  Church  of  Santa  Chiara,  inside  Assisi  where  she  is 
buried.  This  present  Order  is  very  rigid  and  con- 
ventionally austere,  wholly  different  from  the  original 
sisterhood  of  Poor  Ladies  founded  by  St.  Francis 
which  was  like  Francis  himself,  captivatingly  naive, 


236  The  Spell  of  Italy 

free,  and  artless.  Nothing  is  so  beautiful  as  his 
joyousness;  his  Canticle  of  the  Sun,  I  love  to  think, 
was  composed  just  after  a  long  conversation  with 
Clara.  I  am  sure  she  was  a  poet  as  well  as  a  saint 
and  knew  how  to  call  out  all  that  sweet  exultation 
and  spontaneous  happiness  in  the  hfe  of  nature 
which  was  his  in  such  a  degree." 

"  I  am  trying  to  recall  where  Francis  was  when 
he  received  the  Stigmata." 

"  In  the  Casentino,^  on  a  hill  above  the  Arno 
called  La  Verna.  He  went  there  to  prepare  for 
death  in  the  same  spirit  of  really  divine  gladness 
that  he  met  hfe  with.  The  birds  of  Verna,  the  legends 
say,  showed  joy  at  his  coming,  and  yet  though  he 
dehghted  in  these  things  there  was  a  great  weight 
upon  him.  He  said  just  before  he  received  the 
Stigmata,  '  Ah,  if  the  Brothers  knew  what  I  suffer, 
with  what  pity  and  compassion  they  would  be 
moved ! ' 

"  As  death  approached  his  followers  carried  him 
from  Siena,  where  he  had  been  for  some  reason,  home 
to  Assisi.  Is  it  not  most  characteristic  that  they 
had  to  go  a  roundabout  way  to  avoid  Perugia,  be- 
cause there  was  reason  to  fear  that  the  Perugians 
would  try  to  get  possession  of  the  dying  man  that 
so  their   city   might   have  the  honour  of  being  the 

^For  description  of  La  Verna  see  Noyes's  "The  Casentino  and 
Its  Story." 


''The  Little  City  Vowed  to  God"   237 

scene  of  his  death?  Poor  Francis!  Even  he  could 
not  make  over  those  fierce,  greedy  people.  In  Assisi 
he  was  taken  to  the  Bishop's  Palace.  When  told  that 
death  was  near  he  stretched  out  his  hands  with  an 
expression  of  inexpressible  delight,  crying,  '  Welcome, 
Sister  Death ! '  From  that  day  the  palace  '  rang  un- 
ceasingly '  with  his  songs  of  praise.  At  the  last  they 
removed  him  to  the  Portiuncula,  to  a  little  cabin 
facing  the  shrine  his  own  hands  had  built." 

We  rode  on  in  silence,  a  certain  tender  awe  upon 
us  as  we  approached  the  scene  of  so  holy  a  life,  so 
exalted  a  death.  Before  us  on  the  hill  rose  Assisi 
and  nearer  on  the  lower  level  now  appeared  suddenly 
graceful  and  hly-like  the  tower  of  a  large  church. 

"Santa  Maria  degH  AngeH!"  cried  the  driver, 
turning  to  make  sure  that  we  followed  his  pointing 
finger. 

"  And  within  those  walls,  below  that  dome,  is 
the  Portiuncula,"  murmured  FiUa,  her  eyes  tender 
with  unshed  tears.  "  I  hope  we  are  in  time  for  Mass. 
To-day  I  am  CathoHc  —  at  least  Franciscan!  " 

I  think  no  one  can  enter  the  inner  shrine  of  St. 
Francis  without  kneeling  and  I  think  no  one  can 
kneel  unmoved.  Francis  loved  the  Portiuncula 
better  than  any  place  in  the  world.  I  wondered  as 
I  crossed  the  threshold  with  its  inscription.  Hie  locus 
sanctus  est,  whether  he  would  love  it  as  well  to-day 
with  its  Overbeck  fresco  and  its  big,   pretentious. 


238  The  Spell  of  Italy 

enclosing  Basilica,  shutting  out  God's  world,  so  dear 
to  him. 

A  young,  dark-eyed  Franciscan,  in  the  brown  garb 
of  the  Order,  conducted  us  from  the  sanctuary  to  the 
small  chapel  —  once  a  hut  —  in  which  Francis  died. 
After  we  had  studied  lovingly  the  beautiful  statue 
of  Luca  della  Robbia  and  the  not  wholly  convincing 
monastic  cord  of  the  Saint,  the  young  monk  told  in 
his  soft,  gentle  Italian,  the  telepathic  tale  of  the 
noble  Roman  lady,  Jacoba  di  Sentcnsoli,  who  seems 
in  a  way  to  have  usurped  Santa  Clara's  privileges 
and  prominence  at  the  last. 

"  She  was  the  greatest  lady  of  her  time  in  Rome," 
said  the  Franciscan,  "  and  had  a  great  devotion  to 
St.  Francis,  and  by  divine  revelation  she  came  from 
Rome  to  Assisi  to  be  present  at  his  death.  For  St. 
Francis  called  unto  him  one  of  his  companions  and 
said  to  him: 

" '  Brother  most  dear,  God  hath  revealed  unto  me 
that  on  such  a  day  I  shall  pass  away  from  this  life; 
now  thou  wottest  that  the  beloved  Lady  Jacoba  di 
Sentensoh,  who  is  so  devoted  to  our  Order,  would 
be  sore  grieving  if  she  heard  of  my  death  and  had 
not  herself  been  present;  whereby  send  her  word 
that  if  she  would  see  me  aUve  again  let  her  come  here 
straightway.  Go  then  and  bring  me  inkhorn  and 
paper  and  pen  and  write  as  I  shall  tell  thee.'  And 
when  he  had  brought  them  St.  Francis   dictated  the 


**  The  Little  City  Vowed  to  God"   239 

letter :  '  To  the  Lady  Jacoba,  the  servant  of  God, 
Brother  Francis  the  poor  little  one  of  Christ,  greeting 
and  the  fellowship  of  the  Holy  Spirit  in  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  If  thou  desire  to  see  me  still  alive,  when  thou 
hast  seen  this  letter,  do  thou  arise  and  come  unto  St. 
Mary  of  the  Angels.  For  if  thou  art  not  come  by 
such  a  day  thou  wilt  not  find  me  still  alive :  and  bring 
with  thee  a  shroud  of  haircloth  to  wrap  my  body  in 
and  the  wax  that  is  needed  for  the  burial.  I  pray 
thee  likewise  that  thou  bring  me  some  of  the  food 
that  thou  wast  wont  to  give  me  when  I  lay  sick  in 
Rome.' 

"  And  while  this  letter  was  writing  it  was  of  God 
revealed  unto  St.  Francis  that  the  Lady  Jacoba  was 
even  then  come  nigh  the  House,  and  was  bringing 
with  her  all  the  things  he  was  asking  for  by  letter. 
Therefore,  having  this  revelation,  St.  Francis  said 
unto  the  brother  that  he  should  write  no  more:  at 
the  which  thing  the  brothers  marvelled  much,  in  that 
he  finished  not  the  letter  and  desired  that  it  should 
not  be  sent.  And  after  a  little  space  there  was  a 
loud  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  House,  and  the 
door  being  opened,  behold!  there  was  the  Lady 
Jacoba,  the  most  noble  lady  in  all  Rome,  with  her 
two  sons  that  were  Senators  of  Rome,  and  a  great 
company  of  horsemen.  And  the  Lady  Jacoba  went 
straight  unto  St.  Francis  and  of  her  coming  he  had 
exceeding  great  joy  and  comfort,  and  she  likewise, 


240  The  Spell  of  Italy 

beholding  him  still  alive,  and  having  speech  of 
him. 

*'  Then  the  lady  told  him  that  as  she  was  praying 
in  Rome  one  night,  she  heard  a  voice  from  heaven 
saying:  '  If  thou  desire  to  see  Saint  Francis  still 
alive  delay  not  to  go  into  Assisi  and  take  with  thee 
the  things  thou  wast  wont  to  give  him  when  he  was 
sick  and  the  things  that  will  be  needed  for  his  burial; ' 
and  even  so  have  I  done.  So  the  Lady  Jacoba  abode 
there  until  such  time  as  St.  Francis  passed  away 
from  this  Ufe  and  was  buried;  and  she  paid  great 
honours  unto  his  burying,  and  bore  the  charges  of 
whatsoever  was  needed.  Then  returning  to  Rome, 
after  a  short  time,  this  gentle  lady  died  a  holy  death; 
and  of  her  devotion  to  St.  Francis  she  desired  to  be 
carried  to  Assisi  for  burial,  and  so  it  was  done." 

"  And  where  is  the  Lady  Jacoba  buried?  "  asked 
Filia  at  the  close  of  this  recital,  which  we  enjoyed 
more  rather  than  less  for  recognizing  it  as  having 
been  committed  to  memory  from  the  Fioretti.  "  Did 
she  not  desire  burial  in  the  enclosure  of  Santa  Maria?  " 

"  Signorina,  she  desired  it,  but  it  might  not  be 
since  she  was  not  a  rehgious.  The  lady  is  buried 
in  the  Lower  Church  of  San  Francesco." 

"  And  what  about  Santa  Chiara? "  I  asked, 
"  Did  she  have  last  words  also  to  comfort  her,  poor 
little  thing?  She  was  but  eighteen  when  she  founded 
her  Order,  I  beUcve." 


^' The  Little  City  Vowed  to  God"    241 

"  Signora,  Madonna  Chiara  was  a  religious.  She 
was  permitted  to  look  upon  the  body  of  St.  Francis 
through  the  grating,  and  to  kiss  his  hands,  the 
Brothers  kindly  bearing  the  dead  saint  to  San  Da- 
miano  that  so  she  might  have  this  consolation." 

I  tried  not  quite  successfully  to  feel  satisfied,  and 
we  moved  on  to  the  sacristy  where  a  Christ  by  Peru- 
gino  was  noteworthy,  and  then  to  the  garden  of 
thornless  roses  and  to  the  Chapel  of  Roses.  As  we 
were  about  to  depart  our  mild-eyed  Franciscan 
detained  us  and  brought  us  again  into  the  sacristy. 
With  a  smile  in  which  I  felt  a  curious  sweet  craft  he 
proceeded  to  bring  out  a  series  of  most  engaging 
souvenirs  which  he  pressed  upon  us.  To  Filia  he 
gave  a  small  metal  cross  on  which,  in  relief,  were 
figures  of  Francis  and  the  Portiuncula;  to  me,  a 
neat  little  book  descriptive  of  Santa  Maria  degli 
Angeh;  to  these  he  added  various  coloured  tracts 
with  pressed  rose  leaves  and  prints  of  the  Delia 
Robbia  St.  Francis.  Who  could  have  left  thus  fitted 
forth,  without  a  willing  alms  to  the  church  so  gently 
suggested? 

Steeply  the  road  led  now  up  into  the  whitened, 
time-worn  little  town,  and  we  were  deposited  with 
our  luggage  at  the  door  of  the  Subasio.  The  heat 
and  glare  of  midday  drove  us  for  refuge  into  a  cool 
chamber,  and  not  until  afternoon  did  we  venture  out 
again.     It  had,   however,   taken   some   exercise   of 


242  The  Spell  of  Italy 

self-control  to  delay  our  first  sight  of  the  Church  of 
St.  Francis;  to  it  we  now  hastened. 

My  first  impression  as  we  entered  the  Lower 
Church  from  the  bare  sunny  causeway,  was  a  vague 
memory  of  the  blue-and-gold  gloom  of  Capri's 
vaulted  Grotto,  but  the  light  here  was  violet  rather 
than  azure  and  dusky  dim  with  manifold  richness, 
not  translucent,  clear  and  cold.  A  few  steps  brought 
us  deeper  down  the  nave  and  we  stood  beneath  those 
marvellous  groined  arches,  where  the  lovely  frescoes 
of  Martini  and  the  loftier  conceptions  of  Giotto  en- 
compassed us  with  their  celestial  radiance.  It  was 
a  breathless  moment,  and  for  my  own  part  I  cared 
little  to  break  into  the  sensation  which  the  place  as  a 
whole  made  upon  me,  by  a  study  of  details.  For 
that  day  the  ensemble  and  the  frescoes  of  the  high 
altar  sufficed.  Filia  joined  a  little  company  of 
pilgrims  to  the  crypt,  to  the  tomb  of  St.  Francis, 
while  I  met  Francis  at  Giotto's  hand,  living  and 
wedded  in  rainbow  glories  to  Poverty,  Chastity, 
and  Obedience  amid  ranks  of  fair-haired  angels. 
The  Upper  Church  could  not  be  even  thought  of 
until  to-morrow.  What  was  one  visit,  with  fifty 
Giottos  to  learn  and  love,  and  this  noble  Madonna 
of  Cimabue,  among  all  Mater  Dolorosas  the  noblest 
in  Ruskin's  estimation? 

When  we  first  entered  the  sunshine  of  the  early 
afternoon    had   illuminated    the    whole    place,    and 


**  The  Little  City  Vowed  to  God"    243 

brought  out  from  their  lui-king-places  many  hidden 
beauties  which  we  never  saw  again  in  equal  dis- 
tinctness. But  as  the  day  waned  the  Hght  dimmed, 
and  our  eyes  grew  tired  with  searching  out  of  too 
much  loveHness.  "We  turned  gladly  into  the  Cappella 
di  San  Antonio  from  which  access  is  gained  to  the 
ancient  Campo  Santo.  Here  double  cloisters  sur- 
round the  tiny  graveyard  over  which  cypresses  stand 
watchful.  The  place  was  not  gloomy,  and  in  its 
humihty  spoke  of  il  Poverello  more  distinctly  to  me 
than  the  rich  and  myriad-formed  symbolism  of  the 
church  built  in  his  name. 

The  church  itself,  its  origin  and  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  was  built,  assumed  a  vital  interest, 
after  we  had  given  ourselves  over  to  the  indescribable 
influence  which  Assisi  and  its  associations  exercise 
when  in  their  presence.  Two  years  after  the  death 
of  Francis,  Gregory  IX  came  in  person  to  Assisi, 
July  26,  1228,  to  preside  over  the  ceremonies  of 
canonization  and  to  lay  the  first  stone  of  a  great 
basilica,  worthy  to  be  burial-place  and  monument  to 
the  Saint  now  appropriated  by  the  Church.  Brother 
Elias,  one  of  the  master's  companions,  was  deputed 
to  carry  out  the  enterprise.  The  site,  given  by  one 
Simon  Puzzarelli  on  the  hillside,  known  since  as  the 
Collis  Paradisi,  demanded  peculiar  treatment.  Vasari 
says: 

"  There  was  a  great  scarcity  among  good  archi- 


244  The  Spell  of  Italy 

tects  at  this  time,  and  the  church,  having  to  be  built 
upon  a  very  high  hill,  at  the  base  of  which  flows  a 
torrent  called  the  Tescio,  an  excellent  artist  was  re- 
quired for  the  work.  After  much  deliberation  a 
certain  Maestro  Jacopo  Tedcsco  was  called  to  Assisi 
as  being  the  best  architect  then  to  be  found,  and 
having  examined  the  site,  and  consulted  the  wishes 
of  the  fathers,  who  were  holding  a  Chapter  in  Assisi 
to  discuss  the  matter,  he  designed  the  plan  of  a  very 
beautiful  church  and  convent." 

All  evidence  points  to  the  south  of  France  as 
afTording  the  peculiar  architectural  type  embodied 
in  San  Francesco,  which  is  the  first  Gothic  church 
built  in  Italy.  The  conception  is  a  bold  and  a  novel 
one,  that  of  raising  one  church  above  another,  the 
long  colonnades  of  the  convent  thrown  out  along 
the  mountain  ridge  in  fearless  sweep.  The  whole 
edifice  was  complete  in  1253.  For  all  its  commanding 
beauty  and  interest  to  us  who  now  make  pilgrimage 
for  its  art's  sake,  San  Francesco  as  it  arose  on  the 
hillside  of  Assisi  was  watched  by  the  faithful  com- 
panions of  Francis  down  at  the  Portiuncula  with 
hearts  sick  with  sorrow.  Where  was  Lady  Poverty, 
the  Bride  of  their  Master,  to  be  found  amid  all  this 
pomp  and  splendour?  "  Build  poor  little  cells  of  mud 
and  wood,"  he  had  said;  "  also  cause  small  churches 
to  be  built;  they  ought  not  to  raise  great  churches. 
Little  cells  and  small  churches  will  be  better  ser- 


"The  Little  City  Vowed  to  God''    245 

mons  than  many  words."  Brother  Ehas,  the  great 
administrator  of  the  Papal  enterprise,  a  crafty  and 
ambitious  churchman,  was  later  excommunicated 
for  unruly  conduct  and  is  described  by  Miss  Duff 
Gordon  as  at  once  "  the  black  sheep  of  the  Franciscan 
Order  and  one  of  the  greatest  citizens  of  Assisi." 
It  was  in  large  measure  through  his  influence  that 
the  Order  lost  the  initial  ideals  of  its  founder  and 
became  a  conventional,  manageable  instrument  in 
the  hands  of  the  Papacy, 

That  night  I  sat  long  on  the  terrace  of  the  Subasio 
looking  down  at  the  silent  plain,  the  distant  Apen- 
nines, and  the  red  lights  of  Perugia  on  its  hilltop. 
What  a  different  world  this  from  that  of  Southern 
Italy!  Nature  here  in  Umbria  is  rich  in  hues  of 
amethyst  and  emerald;  she  is  nobly,  largely  generous, 
yet  nowhere  is  there  the  voluptuous,  tropical  lavish- 
ness  of  the  South;  neither  does  one  find  the  classic 
calmness  and  imperturbable  grandeur  of  the  Roman 
Campagna,  nor  the  rugged  loftiness  of  the  Italian 
highlands.  All  is  grave,  yet  fuU  of  religious  joy; 
it  is  the  world  into  which  it  was  meet  that  Francis 
Bernadone  should  be  born,  Sabatier  says:  "The 
ever-thickening  barriers  which  modern  Hfe,  with  its 
sickly  search  for  useless  comfort,  has  set  up  between 
us  and  nature  did  not  exist  for  these  men,  so  full  of 
youth  and  hfe,  eager  for  wide  spaces  and  the  outer 
air.    This  is  what  gave  St,  Francis  and  his  compan- 


246  The  Spell  of  Italy 

ions  that  quick  susceptibility  to  Nature  which  made 
them  thrill  in  mysterious  harmony  with  her.  Their 
communion  with  Nature  was  so  intimate,  so  ardent, 
that  Umbria,  with  the  harmonious  poetry  of  its 
skies,  the  joyful  outburst  of  its  spring-time,  is  still 
the  best  document  from  which  to  study  them." 

As  I  sat  and  dreamed  in  the  Umpid  sweetness  of 
the  June  night,  the  haggard,  ascetic  town  sleeping 
around  and  below  on  its  steep  hillside,  I  seemed  to 
see  Assisi  a  devotee,  wasted  with  long  vigils,  with 
prayer  and  fasting,  climbing  those  great  world's 
altar  stairs  that  slope  through  darkness  up  to  God, 
fainting  with  human  weakness  in  that  awful  quest 
of  the  Divine,  but  holding  up  in  her  emaciated 
hands  gifts,  myrrh  and  gold  and  frankincense.  In 
one  hand  she  holds  the  "  treasure  of  the  humble," 
the  poor  hut  of  Francis  Bernadone,  the  Portiuncula; 
in  the  other  the  treasure  of  the  proud,  the  jewelled 
casket  of  San  Francesco  rich  and  radiant,  and  if 
alloyed  with  human  ambition,  still  dear  to  God,  who 
knows  the  frame  of  men  and  remembereth  that  they 
and  their  best  gifts  are  dust. 

"  The  imperious  desire  for  immolation  "  is  in  us 
all,  but  it  is  too  great  for  us.  Is  not  the  endless 
magnetism  of  St.  Francis  herein,  that  he  vicariously 
for  us  hved  this  human  life  at  its  highest  terms  of 
Christlike  love  and  sacrifice?  In  him  we  realize 
with  a  thrill  of  joy,  compunction,  terror,  that  it  is 


*'  The  Little  City  Vowed  to  God  "    247 

after  all  possible  for  the  servant  to  be  as  his 
Master. 

The  Spell  of  Italy!  It  lay  heavy  on  my  sense 
there  in  Sorrento  in  the  perfumed  night;  it  brought 
intellect  into  captivity  among  the  mighty  monu- 
ments of  Rome;  but  here,  in  the  GaUlee  of  Italy, 
here  at  this  Umbrian  shiine,  a  deeper  spell  was  laid, 
for  it  is  to  the  immortal  spirit  which  dwells  in  our 
hearts  that  Assisi  speaks. 

Three  days  we  lingered  there,  but  they  were  far 
too  few.  The  upper  church,  obvious,  pictorial  even 
to  panoramic  comprehensiveness  in  its  mural  paint- 
ing, demanded  much  time,  but  it  never  won  upon 
us  as  did  the  lower,  with  the  strange  hush  and  mys- 
tery of  its  dim  recesses  and  those  ineffable  symboHc 
visions  of  Giotto. 

It  was  pleasant  to  go  to  San  Damiano,  to  look  from 
its  tiny  garden  across  to  the  towers  of  Santa  Maria 
degli  Angeh  and  think  of  Clara's  faithful  eyes  turned 
ever  towards  the  abode  of  the  Master  who  had  called 
her. 

The  walk  to  the  Hermitage,  the  Carceri,  through 
groves  of  oUve  and  over  the  hard,  rocky  hills,  was 
a  difficult  one,  but  the  views  of  the  Tescio  winding 
through  its  valley  were  most  lovely,  and  when  we 
had  climbed  to  the  Carceri  we  found  full  reward. 
Here  was  much  to  remind  us,  not  of  St.  Francis  only, 
but  also  of  San  Bernardino  whose  memorial  in  Perugia 


248  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

was  the  theme  of  Contessa  Carle tti's  story.  Bernar- 
dino was  a  follower  after  Francis's  own  heart.  Com- 
ing a  century  later  he  yet  kindled  a  like  ardour  of 
love  at  the  same  fires  and  espoused  the  same  bride. 
The  cells  of  the  Carceri  which  he  and  his  companions 
inhabited  are  cut  into  the  naked  rock  and  are  primi- 
tive in  the  extreme. 

The  ilex-trees,  hoary  with  age,  surround  the  cells 
and  caverns.  This  was  the  favourite  retreat  of 
Francis  when  he  wished  to  go  apart  to  a  desert  place 
to  pray.  The  slope  was  sweet  with  flowers  and  the 
songs  of  birds.  The  friar  who  guided  us  assured  us 
that  these  ilex-trees  stood  now  as  they  had  stood 
in  the  time  of  Francis  and  that  it  was  to  the  birds 
in  their  branches  that  he  used  sometimes  to  preach. 

"  But  really,  Frate,"  asks  Filia,  "  are  you  quite, 
quite  sure?  " 

"  Certissimo,  Signorina." 

What  would  you  have  more? 

The  end  of  the  week  found  us  back  at  the  Bru- 
fani  with  Sunday  still  left  us  for  Perugia.  Summer 
heat  was  augmenting  daily  and  we  must  hasten 
on  to  Siena  and  Florence,  then  north  to  the  coolness 
of  the  lake  region. 

Returning  to  it  after  three  days  of  absence,  we 
found  even  more  distinctly  than  before  the  dreamy, 
solemn  charm  of  Perugia.    By  the  Via  dei  Priori  we 


*' The  Little  City  Vowed  to  God"    249 

made  our  way  a  second  time  to  the  Oratorio  di  San 
Bernardino,  towards  which  our  thoughts  had  been 
turned  with  longing  since  we  had  read  "  Virtues  in 
Relief."  Even  more  beautiful  than  we  had  remem- 
bered we  found  it,  touched  by  some  strange,  ethereal 
loveliness,  some  consecration  of  a  poet's  dream. 


XIII 

"  SIENA   THE    SORCERESS  " 

'  FTER  two  days  in  Siena  I  made  a  discovery, 
having  met  at  the  Chiuserelli  many  men  of 
many  minds.  This  discovery  is  that  Perugia 
and  Siena  are  touchstones  of  temperament, 
the  preference  for  one  or  the  other  revealing  something 
at  least  of  the  cast  of  mind.  Like  thorn-crowned 
Assisi,  Perugia  is  mystical;  Siena  is  magical.  Perugia 
is  sombre  gray,  massive,  austere,  reticent.  Siena  is 
clear-toned,  brilliant,  graceful,  with  treasure  of  jew- 
elled surfaces  and  much  Byzantine  gold.  For  me, 
I  delight  in  Siena,  I  brood  over  Perugia.  In  the 
one  I  acquire,  in  the  other  I  dream.  Each  has  a 
potent  charm. 

Our  arrival  in  Siena  was  in  the  midst  of  a  sciopero, 
to  use  the  Italian  equivalent  for  strike.  No  carriage 
or  cart  could  be  found  for  luggage  even;  no  shop  of 
any  sort  was  open.  It  was  two  o'clock  and  the  after- 
noon warm.  Thus  we  had  an  illustrious  opportunity 
for  the  display  of  controlled  tempers,  as  we  toiled 
up  a  steep,  sunny  hill  laden  with  our  hght  luggage, 

250 


**  Siena  the  Sorceress  '*  251 

which  seemed  just  then  far  from  light;  then,  by  the 
gates  and  beneath  the  Sienese,  Rome-borrowed 
Lupa  and  her  twins,  to  the  pensione  and  a  dinner 
"  late  and  feeble  "  (see  Grant  Allen's  Guides),  served 
out  of  due  time. 

At  five  o'clock  Filia  and  I  dove  down  into  a  valley 
redolent  of  the  odour  of  tanneries,  —  smell  sacred 
like  everything  else  in  Siena  to  Santa  Caterina,  — 
and  up  again  on  the  farther  side,  where  we  presently 
found  our  way  through  endless  arches  and  pictur- 
esque, deserted  streets  to  the  Piazza  del  Duomo.  We 
stood  breathless  for  a  Httle,  gazing  at  the  Cathedral's 
east  front,  its  intricacies  of  lace-work  in  marble  and 
of  jewels  in  mosaic  flung  up  against  a  sky  of  purest 
blue. 

"  Heavens!"  cried  Filia,  at  last  regaining  breath, 
"  how  preposterously  beautiful!  " 

''  '  Earth  hath  not  anything  to  show  more  fair,'  " 
I  quoted.  "  '  Conceived  by  Titans  and  finished  by 
jewellers,'  —  is  it  not  so?  " 

"  Same  architect  as  Orvieto,"  murmured  Filia,  in 
fragmentary  fashion,  —  "  Lorenzo  Maitani.  Purest 
Italian  Gothic.  Too  many  horizontal  lines;  other- 
wise a  perfect  thing." 

We  agreed  that  the  exterior  was  all  the  ecclesias- 
tical beauty  we  could  bear  in  one  day,  and  so  asked 
our  way  presently  to  the  Piazza  Vittorio  Emanuele, 
wishing  sight  of  the  famous  Torre  del  Mangia  without 


252  The  Spell  of  Italy 

delay.  Our  question  was  put  to  two  shining  military 
beings  in  gold  lace  uniform,  who  were  the  only  citi- 
zens visible  in  the  Piazza.  They  saluted  with  punc- 
tilious gallantry,  gazing  at  Fiha's  Stella  d'ltalia 
given  her  on  the  Illustrissima  Principessa,  and  worn 
to  practical  advantage,  as  indicating  that  she  was  to 
Italy  simpatica  and  probably  annexed.  The  speech 
of  these  officers  was  the  first  we  had  heard  of  Sienese, 
with  its  dehcious  Tuscan  aspirant.  Earnestly  they 
besought  us  not  to  venture  to-day  on  the  Piazza 
Vittorio,  as  there  might  be  shots  fired  in  the  crowd 
gathered  there  because  of  the  sciopero.  For  perfect 
ladies  it  would,  alas,  be  no  place;  on  the  Via  Cavour 
(Havour  they  called  it)  ladies  might  proceed  with 
safety.  Many  salutations,  many  wishes  that  all  may 
va  bene.  Plainly  we  were  regarded  as  belonging  to 
"  Hig-hffe  "  —  the  Italianated  High  Life.  And  so  we 
Wended  our  way  to  the  Via  Cavour,  all  of  whose  shops 
Were  closely  barred  and  bolted.  Suddenly  we  came 
upon  an  opening  between  the  tall  houses,  framed  by 
an  arch,  on  the  high  hill's  crest.  Through  it  we 
caught  instant  vision  of  Siena's  marvellous  civic 
tower,  the  Mangia,  soaring  upward  from  the  vast, 
shell-shaped  Piazza  below.  Howells  says  that  its 
proportions  of  perfect  grace  make  all  other  secular 
towers  vulgar;  even  after  seeing  the  tower  of  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio  I  agree  with  him. 

Like  a  swarm  of  indignant  ants  the  concourse  of 


**  Siena  the  Sorceress  "  253 

people  far  below  in  front  of  the  Palazzo  Pubblico  ran 
to  and  fro  and  did  apparently  nothing.  They  did 
not  even  shoot,  which  Fiha  considered  disappointing. 
On  the  way  home  we  found  ourselves  cheerfully 
followed  by  a  perfectly  harmless-looking  individual, 
an  ItaUan  custom  which  we  had  learned  to  regard 
with  indifference.  We  shook  our  retainer  off  by 
going  into  the  great  bare  church  of  San  Domenico 
to  hear  a  Miserere.  The  antiphonal  chanting  in  this 
soft  Sienese  Latin  was  a  pure  harmony.  The  whole 
scene  was  unforgettable,  —  the  tiny  chapel  lighted 
with  flickering  candles,  the  vast  vaulted  arches  of 
the  church  beyond,  dusky  and  gloomy,  the  swaying 
censers,  the  wreathing  smoke,  the  vestments  of  the 
priests,  the  kneeUng  company  praying  to  all  saints 
for  alleviation  from  the  terrors  of  the  sciopero. 

The  next  morning  we  visited  San  Domenico  again 
in  the  interests  of  Santa  Caterina,  the  strike  being 
settled,  and  Siena  betaking  herself  to  her  wonted 
avocations,  the  Saints  having  shown  themselves 
favourable.  Our  first  hour  was  spent  before  the 
Chapel  of  Santa  Caterina,  learning  to  know  and  love 
Sodoma's  great  conceptions  of  the  supreme  moments 
of  her  life.  A  most  extraordinary  quality  we  foimd 
possessed  by  the  "  Ecstasy,"  —  that  of  appearing 
to  project  itself.  As  I  sat  on  a  bench  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, the  figures,  warmly  Hghted,  appeared  to  leave 
the  canvas  and  advance,  full-bodied,  towards  me. 


254  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Above  the  chapel  is  the  inscription:  "This  Chapel 
holds  the  head  of  Catherine.  Dost  thou  seek  her 
heart?    Nay,  that  Christ  bears  inclosed  in  his  breast." 

A  little  old  woman,  serious  and  voluble,  led  us 
about  the  church,  showed  us  the  chill  Chapel,  the 
Cappella  della  Volte,  where  Catherine  was  wont  to 
pray,  to  dream  dreams,  and  to  see  visions.  A  bit 
of  the  ancient  pavement  which  she  is  known  to  have 
trod  was  pointed  out,  and  the  pillar  against  which 
she  leaned  in  her  ecstasies;  but  the  chief  and  most 
precious  treasure  is  the  authentic  portrait  of  the 
Saint  by  Andrea  di  Vanni,  her  friend  and  contem- 
porary. 

Saint  Catherine's  feast-day  in  Siena  is  April  29. 
On  that  day  the  awful  relic,  the  Saint's  head,  is  ex- 
posed to  view  behind  the  bars  of  the  shrine  in  her 
chapel.  Embalmed  immediately  after  death,  the 
face  is  described  as  fair  and  white,  like  parchment, 
the  features  having  the  aspect  of  sleep  rather  than 
death,  the  lips  dehcately  ascetic,  the  nostrils  finely 
chiseled,  altogether  no  slightest  room  for  sense,  but 
only  for  spirit. 

I  cannot  do  better  for  my  readers  than  to  condense 
here  a  brief  summary  of  Caterina  Benincasa's  life 
story  from  a  standard  source. 

"  St.  Catherine  was  one  of  twenty-five  children  born 
in  wedlock  to  Jacopo  and  Lapa  Benincasa,  citizens 
of  Siena.    Her  father  exercised  the  trade  of  dyer  and 


ECSTASY    OF    ST.    CATHERINE,    BY    "  IL    SODOMA.' 


**  Siena  the  Sorceress  "  255 

fuller.  In  the  year  of  her  birth,  1347,  Siena  reached 
the  climax  of  its  power  and  splendour.  It  was  then 
that  the  plague  of  Boccaccio  began  to  rage,  which 
swept  off  eighty  thousand  citizens,  and  interrupted 
the  building  of  the  great  Duomo.  In  the  midst  of 
so  large  a  family,  and  during  these  troubled  times, 
Catherine  grew  almost  unnoticed;  but  it  was  not 
long  before  she  manifested  her  peculiar  disposition. 
At  six  years  old  she  saw  visions  and  longed  for  a 
monastic  Ufe ;  about  the  same  time  she  used  to  collect 
her  childish  companions  together  and  preach  to  them. 
As  she  grew,  her  wishes  became  stronger;  she  re- 
fused the  proposals  of  marriage  which  her  parents 
made,  and  so  vexed  them  by  her  obstinacy  that  they 
imposed  on  her  the  most  servile  duties  of  the  house- 
hold. These  she  patiently  fulfilled,  pursuing  at 
the  same  time  her  own  vocation  with  unwearied 
ardour.  She  scarcely  slept  at  all,  and  ate  no  food  but 
vegetables  and  a  little  bread,  scourged  herself,  wore 
sackcloth,  and  became  emaciated,  weak,  and  half- 
dehrious.  At  length  the  firmness  of  her  character 
and  the  force  of  her  hallucinations  won  the  day. 
Her  parents  consented  to  her  assuming  the  Domini- 
can robe,  and  at  the  age  of  thirteen  she  entered  the 
monastic  life.  From  this  moment  till  her  death  we 
see  in  her  the  ecstatic,  the  philanthropist,  and  the  poU- 
tician  combined  to  a  remarkable  degree.  For  three 
whole  years  she  never  left  her  cell  except  to  go  to 


256  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

church,  maintaining  an  almost  unbroken  silence. 
Yet  when  she  returned  to  the  world,  convinced  at 
last  of  having  won  by  prayer  and  pain  the  favour  of 
her  Lord,  it  was  to  preach  to  infuriated  mobs,  to  toil 
among  men  dying  of  the  plague,  to  execute  diplo- 
matic negotiations,  to  harangue  the  repubhc  of 
Florence,  to  correspond  with  queens,  and  to  interpose 
between  kings  and  popes.  In  the  midst  of  this 
varied  and  distracting  career  she  continued  to  see 
visions  and  to  fast  and  scourge  herself.  The  domestic 
virtues  and  the  personal  wants  and  wishes  of  a  woman 
Were  annihilated  in  her;  she  lived  for  the  Church,  for 
the  poor,  and  for  Christ,  whom  she  imagined  to  be 
constantly  supporting  her.  At  length  she  died, 
worn  out  by  inward  conflicts,  by  the  tension  of 
religious  ecstasy,  by  want  of  food  and  sleep,  and  by 
the  excitement  of  pohtical  life. 

"  It  is  well  known  how,  by  the  power  of  her  elo- 
quence and  the  ardour  of  her  piety,  she  succeeded 
as  a  mediator  between  Florence  and  the  Pope;  that 
she  travelled  to  Avignon,  and  there  induced  Gregory 
XI  to  put  an  end  to  the  Babylonian  captivity  of  the 
Church  by  returning  to  Rome;  that  she  narrowly 
escaped  political  martyrdom  during  one  of  her 
embassies  from  Gregory  to  the  Florentine  republic; 
that  she  preached  a  crusade  against  the  Turks;  that 
her  last  days  were  clouded  with  sorrow  for  the 
schism  which  then  rent  the  papacy;    and  that  she 


*'  Siena  the  Sorceress  "  257 

aided  by  her  dying  words  to  keep  Pope  Urban  on  the 
papal  throne.  When  we  consider  her  private  and 
spiritual  life  more  narrowly,  it  may  well  move  our 
amazement  to  think  that  the  intricate  policies  of 
Central  Italy,  the  counsels  of  Hcentious  princes  and 
ambitious  popes,  were  in  any  measure  guided  and 
controlled  by  such  a  woman.  Alone,  and  aided  by 
nothing  but  a  reputation  for  sanctity,  she  dared  to 
tell  the  greatest  men  in  Europe  of  their  faults;  she 
Wrote  in  words  of  well-assured  command,  and  they, 
demorahzed,  worldly,  skeptical,  or  indifferent  as 
they  might  be,  were  yet  so  bound  by  superstition 
that  they  could  not  treat  with  scorn  the  voice  of  an 
enthusiastic  girl. 

"  Absolute  disinterestedness,  the  behef  in  her 
spiritual  mission,  natural  genius,  and  that  vast 
power  that  then  belonged  to  all  energetic  members 
of  the  monastic  orders,  enabled  her  to  play  this  part. 

"  Her  personal  influence  seems  to  have  been  im- 
mense. When  she  began  her  career  of  pubHc  peace- 
maker and  preacher  in  Siena,  Raymond,  her  biog- 
rapher, says  that  whole  families  devoted  to  vendetta 
were  reconciled,  and  that  civil  strifes  were  quelled 
by  her  letters  and  addresses.  He  had  seen  more 
than  a  thousand  people  flock  to  hear  her  speak; 
the  confessionals  crowded  with  penitents,  smitten 
by  the  force  of  her  appeals;  and  multitudes,  unable 
to  catch  the  words  which  fell  from  her  lips,  sustained 


258  The  Spell  of  Italy 

and  animated  by  the  light  of  holiness  which  beamed 
from  her  inspired  confidence.  She  was  not  beautiful, 
but  her  face  so  shone  with  love,  and  her  eloquence 
was  so  pathetic  in  its  tenderness,  that  none  could 
look  on  her  or  hear  her  without  emotion. 

"  Catherine  died  at  Rome,  on  the  29th  of  April, 
1380,  in  her  thirty-third  year,  surrounded  by  the 
most  faithful  of  her  friends  and  followers;  but  it 
was  not  until  1461  that  she  received  the  last  honour 
of  canonization  from  the  hands  of  Pius  II  (^Eneas 
Sylvius),  her  countryman,  ^neas  Sylvius  Piccolom- 
ini  was,  perhaps,  the  most  remarkable  man  that 
Siena  has  produced. 

"  The  hundreds  of  the  poor  Sienese  who  kneel 
before  St.  Catherine's  shrine  prove  that  her  memory 
is  still  aUve  in  the  hearts  of  her  fellow  citizens; 
while  the  gorgeous  library  of  the  Cathedral,  painted 
by  the  hand  of  Pinturicchio,  the  sumptuous  palace 
and  the  Loggia  del  Papa,  designed  by  Bernardo 
Rossellino  and  Antonio  Federighi,  record  the  pride 
and  splendour  of  the  greatest  of  the  Piccolomini. 
But,  honourable  as  it  was  for  Pius  to  fill  so  high  a 
place  in  the  annals  of  his  city;  to  have  left  it  as  a 
poor  adventurer,  to  return  to  it,  first  as  bishop,  then 
as  Pope;  to  have  a  chamber  in  its  mother  church 
adorned  with  the  pictured  history  of  his  achievements 
for  a  monument  and  a  triumph  of  Renaissance  archi- 
tecture dedicated  to  his  family  {gentilibus  suis),  yet 


*'  Siena  the  Sorceress  '*  259 

we  cannot  but  feel  that  the  better  part  remains 
with  Saint  Catherine,  whose  prayer  is  still  whis- 
pered by  children  by  their  mother's  knee,  and 
whose  reUcs  are  kissed  daily  by  the  simple  and 
devout." 

I  think  no  shrine  in  Italy,  save  that  of  the  Portiun- 
cula,  is  so  moving  in  its  simplicity  as  the  house  of 
Saint  Catherine  in  the  steep  Via  Benincasa.  Above 
the  door  is  the  inscription:  "  The  House  of  Catherine, 
the  Spouse  of  Christ,"  and  on  entering  we  are 
greeted  by  the  tender  words: 

"  Living,  I  beheld  Him  whom  I  loved." 

We  passed  through  the  Oratories  with  their  mul- 
titudinous frescoes,  thence  into  the  narrow  cell  once 
Catherine's  own  chamber,  and  were  silent.  A  poor 
little  place,  austere,  gloomy  to  a  degree ;  in  it  hoarded 
the  touching  womanish,  yet  monastic,  trifles  said  to 
have  been  hers,  —  the  scent-bottle,  the  lantern, 
the  veil,  the  portion  of  the  hair-shirt.  A  piercing 
sense  of  the  reaUty  of  Catherine's  hfe  dwells  here, 
and  again,  as  at  Assisi,  we  felt  the  thrilling  nearness 
of  glory  to  our  dust,  of  God  to  man. 

The  landscape  of  Tuscany,  as  seen  about  Siena, 
was  arid  and  monotonous  to  us,  coming  fresh  from 
the  rich  and  verdant  valleys  of  Umbria.  It  possesses 
nevertheless  a  certain  delicate  charm  and  sugges- 
tiveness  of  its  own,  with  its  conventional  Hues  of 
cypresses  and  pines,  its  villages  which  seem  just 


260  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

stepping  from  the  distance  of  a  Preraphaelite  paint- 
ing, and  the  silvery  bloom  of  olives  half  veihng  the 
red  and  sandy  soil.  The  whole  landscape  is  dominated 
by  Siena  itself,  rising  proudly  and  nobly  with  its 
lovely  civic  tower  and  the  ghttering  pinnacles  of  the 
Duomo.  We  heard  much  of  the  Races  of  the  Paho 
to  occur  a  month  later,  and  enticing  were  the  sug- 
gestions of  their  mediaeval  pomp  and  pageantry 
which  continually  reached  us.  A  month  in  Siena 
would  have  been  by  no  means  too  long,  and  only 
the  ever-increasing  heat  drove  us  on  and  away. 
But  to  return  and  dwell  within  the  walls  of  "  soft 
Siena  "  is  a  thing  to  hope  and  plan  for.  Here  the 
Italian  language  is  spoken  in  perfection;  here  life 
has  a  certain  clear-cut,  cleanly  radiance,  as  against 
the  oppressive,  shabby  gloom  of  some  ancient  cities, 
while  the  treasures  of  painting  and  architecture  are 
only  less  inexhaustible  than  those  of  Rome,  Venice, 
Naples,  and  Florence.  Take  it  all  in  all,  Siena  is 
thoroughly  livable  and  lovable. 

Meanwhile  for  Fiha  and  me  there  remained  but 
three  or  four  days,  and  days  of  glowing  sun,  to  make 
harvest  in  for  eye  and  memory.  Plainly  much  must 
be  left  ungarnered,  but  we  determined  not  to  be 
disconsolate  over  the  much  left,  but  happy  over  the 
much  gained. 

A  king  dchght  was  the  Baptistery  of  San 
Giovanni,  the  Crypt  of  the  Cathedral.      We  came 


*'  Siena  the  Sorceress  '*  261 

upon  it  almost  unawares  as  we  turned  from  scanning 
the  front  of  the  Palazzo  del  Magnifico.  A  bold  and 
striking  external  sweep  of  stately  stairs  leads  at  the 
left  of  the  Baptistery  up  to  the  Cathedral  entrance 
in  the  square  above;  there  is  no  other  communica- 
tion between  church  and  Baptistery.  Having  on 
our  previous  visit  approached  the  Cathedral  by 
another  way,  this  first  view  of  so  novel  and  pictur- 
esque an  architectural  effect  at  once  arrested  our 
admiration.  But  the  doors  into  the  Baptistery 
stood  open,  and  before  ascending  to  the  Cathedral 
we  entered,  not  knowing  what  awaited  us.  Here  in 
the  dim  chiaroscuro  of  the  interior  rose  a  marvel  in 
marble,  delicate  as  a  flower,  the  Font  of  San  Giovanni, 
on  which  the  art  of  Delia  Querela,  Gliiberti,  and 
Donatello  are  mingled  in  bewildering  richness.  This 
was  our  first  acquaintance  with  the  work  of  Jacopo 
della  Querela,  Siena's  great  master  sculptor,  Ghiberti's 
competitor  and  rival.  Later  we  saw  fragments  of 
his  nobly  beautiful  figures,  carved  for  the  Fonta  Gaia, 
but  now  removed  to  the  Opera  del  Duomo.  He  is 
of  the  group  of  great  Italian  sculptors,  and  all  we 
saw  by  him  was  memorable. 

From  the  day  we  first  entered  it  until  we  left 
Siena  for  Florence,  we  gave  ourselves  the  privilege 
of  an  hour  daily  within  the  walls  of  the  Cathedral, 
I  remembered  at  our  first  entrance  into  it  the  remark 
of   Contessa  Ceciha,  that  there  were  no  beautiful 


262  The  Spell  of  Italy 

churches  in  Rome.  Assuredly  we  had  seen  none  to 
name  with  this  Tuscan  Cathedral,  whether  in  the 
effect  of  the  whole  or  in  the  beauty  of  detail.  Noth- 
ing can  exceed  the  frank  and  vivid  brilliancy  of 
Pinturicchio's  frescoes  on  the  walls  of  the  Cathedral 
library.  Arthur  Symons  says,  "  Nothing  so  bright 
was  ever  put  on  a  wall  as  the  picture  of  that  room 
in  which  MnesLS  Silvius  is  made  Cardinal."  The 
contract  for  the  decoration  of  the  walls  of  the  Libre- 
ria  was  dated  June  29,  1502.  It  was  made  between 
the  "  most  reverend  lord  Cardinal  of  Siena  and  Messer 
Bernardino,  called  il  Pinturicchio,  painter  of  Peru- 
gia." The  leading  episodes  in  the  life  of  Pope  Pius 
II  (iEneas  Silvius  Piccolomini,  native  of  Siena), 
Were  to  be  the  subjects  of  the  frescoes,  and  the  ex- 
press stipulation  was  that  il  Pinturicchio  shall  "  make 
all  the  designs  of  the  histories  with  his  own  hand, 
in  cartoons  and  on  the  walls,  and  paint  all  the  heads 
of  the  figures  in  fresco  with  his  own  hand."  (None 
the  less  it  is  believed  that  Raphael  himself  lent  a 
frequent  helping  pencil.)  Further,  great  emphasis  is 
laid  upon  the  free  use  of  "  gold,  azure,  ultra-marine, 
enamel-blue,  azure-greens  and  other  pleasing  colours." 
In  truth  il  Pinturicchio  filled  his  colour  contract 
well.  Peculiar  interest  attaches  to  the  great  scene 
in  which  the  young  Piccolomini  rides  forth  to  seek 
his  fortunes,  as  one  of  the  retinue,  a  beautiful  youth, 
mounted   on  a  richly  caparisoned  bay  horse,  and 


RAPHAEL,    DETAIL   OF   FRESCO    BY    PINTURICCHIO. 


^'  Siena  the  Sorceress  "  263 

holding  a  hound  in  leash,  is  believed  to  be  an  authen- 
tic portrait  of  Raphael. 

One  might  devote  days  of  study  to  the  endless 
intricacies  of  the  Cathedral  pavement,  the  famous 
grafiti,  where  in  strong  contrast  of  black  and  white 
marble  and  in  powerful  outHnes,  Saints  and  Sybils, 
heraldic  beasts  and  Scriptural  characters  appear  in 
endless  sequence,  so  stern,  so  grotesque,  and  yet 
so  beautiful  that  they  haunt  the  memory. 

And  Siena's  pulpit,  who  shall  describe  it?  That 
masterpiece  of  Nicola  Pisano,  which  marks  so  nearly 
the  year  of  Dante's  birth!  The  busts  of  the  Popes 
in  the  cornice;  the  Capella  del  Volte,  with  its  sweet, 
archaic  pictures  of  the  young  knight,  Alberto 
Aringhieri,  and  the  lovely  scenes  in  the  life  of  the 
Baptist;  the  glories  of  the  choir  and  high-altar,  — 
should  not  things  Uke  these  be  mentioned  rather 
than  that  small  detail  of  the  horizontal  layers  of 
black  and  ivory  marble  in  pillars  and  walls,  which 
appears  the  only  point  observed  by  casual  visitors? 
They  go  away  and  ask  the  next  man  they  meet  if 
he  has  seen  the  zebra  church,  and  chuckle  at  their 
own  originahty! 

Nowhere  have  we  seen  civic  pride  in  such  mag- 
nificent apotheosis  as  in  Siena's  Palace  of  the  Com- 
mune. The  rise  of  the  ItaHan  Free  City  and  the  small 
Republic  could  hardly  be  better  illustrated  than  here, 
on  these  deep  coloured,  sumptuous  walls,  painted 


264  The  Spell  of  Italy 

by  Simone  Martini,  while  the  Wars  of  the  Towns  in 
the  days  when  Siena  was  in  feud  perpetual  with 
Florence  can  well  be  realized  in  Vanni's  and  Andrea's 
frescoes.  For  the  student  of  history  as  well  as  for 
the  student  of  art  and  of  language  Siena  has  much 
to  offer. 

But  this  civic  pride  of  the  old  days,  preempting 
the  Saints  to  bless,  the  angels  to  protect,  the  Virgin 
to  crown  our  own  city,  has  a  curious  irony  as  one 
looks  about  to-day  on  Siena's  empty  streets  and 
forsaken  palaces.  What  a  spur  it  gave  to  art,  though, 
in  its  day,  and  how  one  must  be  for  ever  grateful 
to  that  impulse  when  we  see  a  man  like  Bazzi,  "  II 
Sodoma,"  who  could  paint  falsely,  who  could  even 
betray  the  best  traditions  of  Sienese  art,  prompted 
to  paint  so  nobly,  so  truly  an  ideal  of  Christian 
knighthood  as  in  the  St.  Victor  in  the  Sala  del  Gran 
Consigho. 

Endless  are  the  art  treasures  of  these  signorial 
halls.  Innumerable  are  the  balzane  (Siena's  black 
and  white  shield),  over  doors  and  windows,  and 
everywhere  the  Lupa  and  other  insignia  are  exalted. 
Wearied  with  endless  symbol  and  allegory,  we  came 
out  upon  the  Piazza,  the  Campo  where  the  races 
were  so  soon  to  be  run,  crossed  to  the  Fonte  Gaia 
(poor  copy  of  Delia  Quercia's  beautiful  originals,  in 
fragments  now  in  the  Opera  del  Duomo),  and 
looked  back.     There  with  a  thrill  we  saw  above  us 


ST.   VICTOR,    BY    "  IL   SODOMA." 


"  Siena  the  Sorceress  "  265 

that  thing  of  soaring  grace,  the  Torre  del  Mangia, 
rising  bare  and  fearless  above  all  the  riot  of  colour 
and  figure  within,  and  we  found  it  greater  than 
these. 

The  Picture  Gallery,  or  Belle  Arti,  of  Siena  is 
arranged  in  a  particularly  lucid  chronological  se- 
quence. From  the  thirteenth  century  painters  of  the 
Stanza  Prima  with  their  strong  Byzantine  set  and 
hard  archaic  figures,  on  through  the  lovely  but  still 
primitive  conceptions  of  the  Lorenzetti,  to  the 
exquisite  mysticism  and  shadowless  sweetness  of 
Sano  di  Pietro ;  then  on  to  Neroccio  in  full  breadth 
of  Renaissance  power,  and  to  Bazzi,  the  prodigally 
gifted  Lombard  follower  of  Leonardo,  imported  by 
the  Sienese  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, —  thus  proceeding  we  felt  that  we  had  watched 
a  tight-closed  bud  of  stiff,  rough  calyx  and  little 
promise  grow  by  hardly  perceptible  degrees,  to  burst 
at  last  into  bloom  of  colour,  grace,  and  life.  The 
whole  story  of  Italian  Art  was  displayed  in  miniature 
before  our  eyes.  In  the  Oratory  of  San  Bernardino 
we  later  found  charming  frescoes  by  Beccafumi,  whose 
scenes  from  the  hfe  of  St.  Catherine  we  had  already 
delighted  in,  upborne  later  by  finding  that  Vasari 
agreed  with  us!  For,  says  that  authoritative  chroni- 
cler: "  Likewise  in  the  predella  he  (Beccafumi)  did 
certain  stories  in  distemper  with  incredible  spirit 
and  vivacity,  and  with  such  facility  in  drawing  that 


266  The  Spell  of  Italy 

they  could  not  have  greater  grace,  and  nevertheless 
seem  done  without  a  trouble  in  the  world." 

For  the  work  of  Duccio  di  Buoninsegna,  the  first 
great  Sienese  master,  Giotto's  contemporary  and 
peer,  one  must  go  to  the  Opera  del  Duomo.  There, 
neglected  and  restored  with  equally  sad  results, 
maimed  and  marred,  still  remains  in  fragments  the 
reredos,  his  masterpiece,  which  has  been  called  the 
supreme  picture  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Below  the  great 
central  throne  Duccio  has  inscribed  this  prayer: 
"  Holy  Mother  of  God,  be  Thou  the  cause  of  rest  to 
Siena;  be  life  to  Duccio  because  he  has  painted  Thee 
thus." 


XIV 

THE   CITY  OF   FORESTIERI 

\E  had  met  heralds  of  Florence  all  the  way 
from  Naples.  Here  and  there  our  road 
had  been  lighted  by  shapes  of  seraphic 
singers,  by  a  sudden  vision  of  jewelled 
colour  and  burnished  gold.  Then  we  would  be 
told:  this  is  merely  an  outrider  of  the  Florentines; 
a  stray  master-bit  of  the  Delia  Robbia's,  a  transiently 
imported  brush  of  Gozzoli,  or  Angelico,  or  Lippi. 
Wait  until  you  reach  Florence  for  royalty  itself  in 
largess ! 

Notwithstanding  being  thus  warned  of  the  wise, 
the  burst  of  the  full-orbed  sun  of  Florentine  art  on 
our  first  morning  in  Florence  in  the  Belle  Arti  dazzled 
us  completelyo  Such  riches  were  incredible,  and 
ours,  all  ours  for  walking  through  certain  streets 
and  squares,  quite  as  if  one  were  going  to  see  silks 
or  muslins  by  the  yard!  And  after  the  Belle  Arti 
and  that  almost  unendurable,  poignant  beauty  of 
Botticelli's  Spring  and  Fra  Angehco's  Last  Judgment, 
there  were  still  the  hoarded  treasures  illimitable  of 

267 


268  The  Spell  of  Italy 

the  Uffizzi  and  the  Pitti!  And  then  the  Bargello 
and  the  Palazzo  Riccardi  with  the  GozzoU's,  and 
Or  San  Michele,  Santa  Croce,  il  Duomo,  and  the 
other  churches;  and  what  would  Ruskin  do  to  us 
if  we  failed  in  our  duty  by  Santa  Maria  Novella? 
Besides  all  these,  the  glories  of  the  Baptistery  and 
Campanile  and  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  — 

"  where  is  set 
Cellini's  godlike  Perseus,  bronze  or  gold, 
(How  name  the  metal,  when  the  statue  flings 
Its  soul  so  in  your  eyes?)  with  brow  and  sword 
Superbly  calm." 

And  then  San  Marco,  above  all  San  Marco !  Truly 
it  is  to  despair,  and  all  this  is  not  Florence.  Florence 
itself  will  still  remain  unwon,  for  we  have  still  not 
companied  with  her  Dante,  her  Buonarotti,  her 
mightiest.  To  come  here  and  have  no  time  to  brood 
over  the  Florence  in  which  Beatrice  walked,  "  crowned 
and  clothed  with  humility,"  while  Dante  looked  and 
worshipped  from  afar,  —  the  pity  of  it,  oh,  the  pity 
of  it!  It  is  almost  to  cheat  one's  own  soul  to  have 
but  that  beggarly  tourist's  fortnight  to  be  teased  to 
tatters  in  by  all  this  bewilderment  of  things  most 
precious! 

What  wonder  that  Florence  is,  like  Venice,  'par 
excellence  the  City  of  Forestieri,  since  here  are  more 
masterpieces  than  are  brought  together  in  any  city 
of  the  world?     What  wonder  that,  as  Mr.  Arthur 


The  City  of  Forestieri  269 

Symons  says,  Florence  is  a  woman  praised  so  long 
that  she  has  become  overconscious?  Perhaps  it  is 
no  wonder  even  that  in  Florence  the  last  thing  you 
shall  see  is  Florentines,  the  last  language  you  shall 
hear  is  ItaHan.  Each  freshly  arrived  ocean  liner 
pours  out  its  freight  of  sightseers,  who  hasten  by 
the  hundred  from  Genoa  and  Naples  to  this  tourists' 
Mecca,  while  massive  Tedeschi  and  superior  Inglesi, 
superknowing  and  superconscious,  stream  like  a 
glacial  flood  southward  through  the  passes  of  the 
Alps,  seek  out  their  wonted  haunts,  fall  to  on  their 
esoteric  divination  of  Botticelli,  and  gaze  at  new- 
comers in  cold  dislike. 

Filia  knew  that  it  was  in  my  heart  to  write  a  book, 
as  other  folks  do,  when  they  go  to  Italy.  She  had 
regarded  this  enterprise  respectfully,  but  when  we 
returned  from  our  first  Ramble  (I  think  that  is  the 
usual  word)  in  Florence,  as  we  paced  the  Lung'  Arno 
pensione-wards  in  ambient  heat  that  quivered  and 
snapped  and  splintered  into  needle-points  from  the 
paving-stones,  she  exclaimed  with  a  perceptible 
trace  of  sarcasm: 

"  How  dehghtful  it  will  be  to  describe  Florence ! 
I  should  think  it  would  require  rather  a  long 
chapter." 

"Fiha,"  I  said  resentfully,  "to  tliink  I  should 
undertake  to  describe  Florence  is  a  reflection  upon 
my  inteUigence.    I  at  least  know  what  not  to  do." 


270  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  There  have  been  several  books  written  —  "  Here 
Filia  laughed  feebly,  slightly  stupefied  by  the  daz- 
zling brightness  of  the  street. 

"  You  notice,  I  suppose,"  I  commented,  "  that 
we  are  the  only  persons  in  Florence  who  do  not  know 
better  than  to  walk  along  the  Lung'  Arno  at  high 
noon.  Itahans  never  show  their  heads  out-of-doors 
in  summer  between  eleven  and  four." 

"  Italians?  "  murmured  Filia,  vaguely,  "  but  there 
are  no  Italians  in  Florence.  Every  one  I  don't  care 
about  in  America  has  turned  up  and  embraced  me 
to-day.  I  have  seen  solid  phalanxes  of  Tedeschi 
and  cohorts  of  Inglesi,  but  —  " 

"  There  are  a  few  Italians  in  Florence,"  I  inter- 
rupted, unceremoniously,  pointing  to  a  jeweller's 
window.  "  They  trade  in  trinkets  here  and  on  the 
Ponte  Vecchio.  Other  some  keep  pensiones.  Here, 
by  a  merciful  dispensation,  is  ours  at  last." 

This  Darling  of  Nations,  Lily  of  the  Arno,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it,  is,  I  am  assured,  the  hottest  of  Italian 
cities  in  summer,  the  coldest  in  winter.  I  am  pre- 
pared to  endorse  the  first  proposition.  As  a  result  of 
the  heat,  which  made  sightseeing  a  perilous  enter- 
prise that  mid-June  week,  and  of  the  suggestive 
swarms  of  tourists  all  about  us,  I  found  myself  at 
this  point  in  my  travels  weakly  yielding  to  a  temp- 
tation with  which  I  had  struggled  from  the  first 
week  after  my  arrival,  that  is,  the   temptation  to 


The  City  of  Forestieri  271 

give  instruction  and  advice  to  those  as  yet  un- 
tra veiled  in  Italy. 

This  is  a  subtle  and  an  insidious  temptation,  to 
which  some  are  plainly  more  open  than  others. 
The  most  temptable  person  I  have  met  was  a  teacher 
from  a  college  in  Kansas,  who,  having  landed  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  in  Naples  on  a  Wednesday 
evening,  gave  instruction  to  the  whole  personelle  of 
the  pensione,  at  dinner  on  Thursday  evening,  as  to 
the  best  way  to  visit  Pompeii,  Sorrento,  and  Capri, 
and,  of  course,  the  Naples  Museo,  in  twenty-four 
hours.  He  having  done  this  with  complete  satis- 
faction to  himself,  clothed  his  elation  in  decent 
sobriety,  while  pity  was  in  his  gaze  for  such  as  found 
a  week  too  short  for  his  one  day's  winnings. 

I  say  this  temptation  to  give  advice  as  to  methods 
and  measures  in  travel  is  subtle  because  it  mas- 
querades as  a  pure  piece  of  altruism,  while  in  reahty 
it  is  the  egoism  of  wishing  to  manifest  one's  own 
keenness  and  capacity.  I  can  see  this  clearly,  never- 
theless the  temptation  is  too  insidious  for  me  to 
resist,  and  I  yield.  Plainly  it  is  merciful  not  only 
to  myself  but  to  my  readers,  since  it  saves  them  one 
more  failure  in  the  attempt  to  describe  Florence. 

Why  indeed  should  one  try  to  describe  Florence 
when  Browning  has  written: 

"  Lo,  the  moon's  self  I 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 


272  The  Spell  of  Italy 

still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  colour, 
Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight, 
Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair's-breadth. 
Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 
Rounder  'twixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder, 
Perfect,  till  the  nightingales  applauded." 

And  when  Mrs.  Browning  gives  us  lines  like  these: 

"  For  me,  who  stand  in  Italy  to-day 
Where  worthier  poets  stood  and  sang  before, 

I  kiss  their  footsteps,  yet  their  words  gainsay. 
I  can  but  muse  in  hope  upon  this  shore 

Of  golden  Arno  as  it  shoots  away 
Through  Florence'  heart  beneath  her  bridges  four,  — 

Bent  bridges  seeming  to  strain  off  like  bows. 
And  tremble  while  the  arrowy  undertide 

Shoots  on,  and  cleaves  the  marble  as  it  goes. 
And  strikes  up  palace-walls  on  either  side. 

And  froths  the  cornice  out  in  glittering  rows. 
With  doors  and  windows  quaintly  multiplied, 

And  terrace -sweeps,  and  gazers  upon  all. 
By  whom  if  flower  or  kerchief  were  thrown  out 

From  any  lattice  there,  the  same  would  fall 
Into  the  river  underneath,  no  doubt. 

It  runs  so  close  and  fast  'twixt  wall  and  wall. 
How  beautiful  !     The  mountains  from  without 

In  silence  listen  for  the  word  said  next. 
What  will  men  say,  —  here  where  Giotto  planted 

His  campanile  like  an  unperplext 
Fine  question  heavenward  .  .  . 

What  word  will  God  say  ?     Michel's  Night  and  Day 
And  Dawn  and  Twilight  wait  in  marble  scorn. 

Like  dogs  upon  a  dunghill,  couched  on  clay 
From  whence  the  Medicean  stamp's  outworn." 


The  City  of  Forestieri  273 

"  Casa  Guidi  Windows  "  is  primarily  a  political 
pamphlet,  struck  out  at  Mrs.  Browning's  white 
heat  of  passionate  Repubhcanism  and  Mazzini- 
worship  in  those  crucial  years  of  1848  and  1851,  but 
it  abounds  in  passages  of  pure  poetry  like  this.  One 
day  I  shall  come  to  Florence  with  time  to  read  it 
where  it  was  written;  with  time  to  follow  Robert 
Browning,  carrying  home  to  Casa  Guidi  in  high 
glee  his  memorable  find,  —  that  small  quarto,  "  part 
print,  part  manuscript,"  "  through  street  and  street, 
at  the  Strozzi,  at  the  Pillar,  at  the  Bridge!  "  How 
one  loves  to  fancy  those  two  immortals  in  the  hour 
after,  with  heads  bent  together  over  the  rough, 
yellowed  leaves  of  the  "  Rornana  Homicidiorum " 
within  the  walls  of  Casa  Guidi,  above  the  "  stone  slab 
of  the  staircase  cold!  "  Did  his  lyric  Love  half-angel 
and  half-bird,  first  flash  into  his  brain  a  hint  of  the 
great  poem  whose  germ  was  held  in  the  dry  husk  of 
that  faded  manuscript?     I  think  so.    There  was  — 

"  Some  interchange 
Of  grace,  some  splendour  once  thy  very  thought, 
Some  benediction  anciently  thy  smUe." 

This  parenthesis  is  excusable,  for  it  is  hard  to 
drag  one's  thoughts  away  from  the  Brownings  in 
Florence.  The  place  seems  consecrated  to  their 
memory,  and  I  would  rather  miss  Donatcllo  himself 
than  my  precious  moments  in  Casa  Guidi  and  at 
Mrs.  Browning's  grave  in  the  Protestant  Cemetery. 


274  The  Spell  of  Italy 

But  to  return  to  my  present  avowed  purpose. 
It  cannot  have  escaped  the  observation  of  those  who 
have  thus  far  followed  our  wanderings,  that  my 
intent  in  describing  them  is  not  to  give  more  light 
to  the  initiated,  but  to  offer  a  modest  twinkling 
candle,  in  a  spirit  of  humility,  to  the  uninitiated. 
To  them,  to  those  who  dream  of  Italy  as  a  heaven 
unattainable  or  at  least  unattained,  this  chapter  is 
especially  dedicated.  It  is  a  chapter  of  ways  and 
means,  of  temporahties  and  frugalities. 

My  first  point  is  that  Italy  is  in  a  sense  indispen- 
sable. Edward  Hutton  does  not  overrhapsodize  when 
he  says :  "  Without  Italy  I  am  beggared.  Though  God 
saw  fit  to  make  me  an  Englishman,  it  was  in  Italy 
I  caught  my  first  glimpse  of  heaven.  Yet  He  knows 
under  her  sun  and  sky  I  envy  no  archangel  in  Para- 
dise." 

According  to  my  observation,  many  Americans 
who  travel  moderately  both  at  home  and  abroad 
deny  themselves  Italy  as  if  it  were  an  extravagance, 
a  thing  vaguely  impracticable,  while  Jamaica,  Los 
Angeles,  London,  Brussels,  and  Paris  are  easy  and 
accessible.  But  in  point  of  fact  those  who  visit 
CaHfornia  and  the  West  Indies  spend  more  money 
in  a  week  than  they  need  spend  in  a  month  in  Italy, 
since  nowhere  is  travel  so  exorbitantly  expensive  as 
on  our  side  the  Atlantic. 

It  is  perfectly  true,   however,  that  in  the  days 


The  City  of  Forestieri  275 

when  one  must  land  in  England  or  some  channel 
port  and  cross  all  Europe  to  reach  it,  Italy  was  some- 
what inaccessible.  The  Mediterranean  service  of 
to-day  makes  it  so  no  longer.  While  the  voyage  to 
the  southern  is  sUghtly  more  expensive  than  the 
voyage  to  the  northern  ports,  it  is  much  more  beauti- 
ful and,  being  longer,  and  the  last  three  days  full 
of  interesting  "  sights,"  one  can  at  least  be  said  to 
get  as  much  return  for  one's  money.  Arrived  in 
Italy,  the  lower  rates  of  living  and  moderate  cost 
of  travel,  either  by  carriage  or  by  rail,  make  the 
sojourn  a  less  expensive  luxury  than  an  equal  time 
spent  in  England,  Holland,  or  in  Switzerland.  It 
may  be  possible  to  live  as  cheaply  in  Germany.  I 
do  not  know,  as  my  Ufe  in  Germany  was  at  an  earUer 
date. 

The  perfectly  practical  questions  are:  What  can 
we  travel  and  hve  on  in  Italy?  and,  How  well  can 
we  live  and  travel  on  an  economical  basis? 

In  railroad  travel,  first-class  is  not  shockingly 
luxurious  or  enervatingly  comfortable,  but  second- 
class  is  always  possible,  and  one  does  very  well  on 
the  whole.  I  have  not  found  Itahan  railway  car- 
riages the  dens  of  untidiness  and  iniquity  which 
they  are  often  represented,  and  in  punctuaHty  and 
safety  the  service  is  better  —  since  the  Govern- 
ment has  taken  the  roads  into  its  hands  —  than  in 
our  own  country,    I  have  known  American  women  of 


2  76  The  Spell  of  Italy 

refinement  and  good  judgment  to  travel  third-class 
in  Italy,  and  they  did  not  find  it  hideous  or  alarming. 
However,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  advisable  except 
quite  in  the  north.  On  the  basis  of  second-class 
travel,  the  railroad  tickets  from  Naples  by  Rome, 
Florence,  and  Bologna  direct  to  Milan  will  cost  about 
eighteen  dollars.  This  covers  the  length  of  the 
peninsula  practically.  Side  trips,  as  to  Siena  from 
Florence,  to  Venice  between  Bologna  and  Milan,  to 
Pisa  or  Verona,  do  not  make  very  formidable  ad- 
ditions. Food  en  route  is  difficult  to  obtain,  and  it 
is  always  wise  to  take  a  luncheon  from  the  hotel 
or  pensione  one  is  leaving.  This  is  expected,  and 
the  luncheons  are  almost  invariably  well  prepared. 
Fresh  water  —  acqua  fresca  —  and  light  wines  are 
offered  at  the  car  windows  at  most  stopping-places. 
On  some  trains  there  is  a  dining-car,  but  in  general 
these  are  the  high-priced  express  trains  which  do 
not  carry  second-class  passengers.  The  dining-car 
rates  are  a  fittle  less  than  in  this  country. 

One  important  consideration  costwise  is  luggage. 
All  that  goes  in  the  carriage  with  you  goes  free;  for 
all  besides  you  pay,  and  pay  extortionately.  For 
every  reason,  the  best  method  is  to  take  the  fightest 
trunk  and  the  smallest  you  can  do  with,  and  make 
one  trunk  do  for  two  persons.  I  should  not  advise 
women  to  make  the  experiment  of  travelling  with- 
out a  trunk  unless  they  are  willing  to  forego  certain 


The  City  of  Forestieri  277 

shades  and  degrees  of  comfort  and  of  self-respect. 
Good  dressing  always  has  its  reward,  and  to  dress 
well  several  months  out  of  a  hold-all  is  rather  im- 
possible; the  way  of  the  Bare-poles  tourist  is  hard. 
Premising  then  a  trunk,  my  suggestion  is  to  sliip 
this  trunk  by  petite  vitesse  (slow  express  or  freight) 
or  by  grande  vitesse  (fast  express)  in  advance  of  your 
own  journey.  The  charges  by  this  method  are 
moderate,  and  there  is  safety  and  no  bother.  Great 
tales  are  told  of  the  perils  to  one's  luggage  in  trans- 
portation, and  Italian  officials  are  usually  described 
as  pirates  and  robbers.  I  believe  there  is  little  basis 
in  fact  for  these  tales,  at  least  at  the  present  day. 
At  all  events,  in  a  prolonged  stay  in  Italy  (certain 
results  of  which  have  been  condensed  and  incor- 
porated into  this  chapter)  we  never  experienced  the 
slightest  irregularity,  and  om"  trunks  were  sent  at 
one  time  the  length  of  Italy  from  a  tiny  village  in 
Lombardy,  and  again  to  an  obscure  mountain  resort 
in  Tuscany  from  over  the  line  into  ItaHan  Switzer- 
land. Always  they  awaited  our  coming  in  good  and 
regular  standing. 

Another  item  in  travel  is  the  fees  to  porters. 
Never  fail  in  starting  on  a  journey,  or  indeed  on  a 
day's  round  of  any  kind,  to  take  a  pocket  full  of 
coppers.  Small  fees  are  in  order,  but  fees  of  some 
kind  are  in  order  perpetually.  With  these  and  the 
small  coin  of    kindly  and  gracious  courtesies,  you 


278  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

shall  come  well  on  your  way  anywhere.  The  frown- 
ing, curt,  fault-finding  traveller  is  never  the  well- 
sped  one  in  Italy.  There  is,  however,  one  contin- 
gency in  which  courtesy  and  kindliness  will  fail: 
this  is  the  event  of  an  encounter  with  the  persistent 
and  even  insolent  street  urcliins  and  beggars,  who 
occasionally  beset  forestieri  in  Italian  towns.  We 
learned  by  experience  that  we  could  protect  ourselves 
from  this  annoyance  only  by  an  air  of  inflexible 
severity,  with  the  imperative  "  Basta!  "  or  "  Niente!  " 
(Enough!  Nothing!)  and  with  mention  of  cara- 
binieri  or  guarda.  The  little  gamins  are  often  dis- 
tractingly  handsome  with  their  big,  dark  eyes,  but 
the  slightest  expression  of  interest,  indulgence,  or 
amusement  on  our  part  always  opened  the  way  for 
offensive  and  persistent  importunities.  With  all 
other  classes  in  Italy  gentleness  wins  the  day  and 
the  way.  The  Italians  of  the  better  class  are  the 
most  courteous,  obliging,  and  responsive  people 
in  all  Europe.  Beside  their  courtly  and  deferential 
manners  and  their  sincere  desire  to  make  the  common 
round  a  sweet  and  gracious  thing,  our  American 
brusquerie,  our  crass  intentness  on  our  own  affairs 
and  interests,  have  sometimes  a  savour  of  brutality. 
Another  Italian  characteristic  is  that  of  a  fairly  pre- 
ternatural swiftness  of  perception  and  intuition. 
The  Anglo-Saxon  mind  beside  the  Italian  suggests  an 
elephant  by  the  side  of  an  antelope.    This  en  passant. 


The  City  of  Forestieri  279 

A  delightful  way  of  travel  and  one  much  to  be  rec- 
ommended is  by  carriage.  This  is  by  no  means  an 
extravagance  in  Italy,  where,  as  I  have  mentioned, 
a  two-horse  carriage  and  coachman  can  be  hired  to 
drive  twenty  odd  miles  for  two  dollars.  A  trust- 
worthy driver  is,  however,  imperatively  requisite. 
So  much  for  the  economics  of  travel.  What  of 
living? 

I  think  the  pivot  on  which  this  question  turns  is 
that  of  length  of  stay  in  a  given  place.  If  economy 
is  an  object  and  at  the  same  time  the  object  is  the 
gain  of  permanent  impressions  instead  of  a  fleeting 
phantasmagoria  of  cloisters,  campaniles,  maimed 
statues,  and  faded  frescoes,  avoid  rapid  travel.  To 
begin  farther  back,  do  not  take  Italy  as  part  of  the 
grand  tour  if  you  can  help  yourself.  Do  it  the 
honour  and  yourself  the  grace  to  hang  it  in  a 
separate  frame.  Six  months  should  be  given  to  it 
if  a  year  is  impracticable,  and  in  no  case  should  one 
devote  to  it  less  than  two  months.  "  One-night 
stands  "  should  be  avoided  as  scrupulously  as  one 
avoids  the  spectre  of  Roman  fevers.  They  are 
much  more  disastrous  in  reality,  and  slay  their 
thousands.  Also  they  drain  one's  resources  at  a 
fearsome  rate.  An  axiom  of  travel  should  be :  Never 
stay  less  than  five  days  in  a  place.  This  for  reasons 
various  and  sufficiently  obvious.  As,  for  instance, 
certain  of  the  best  hotels  make  a  rate  not  in  excess  of 


280  The  Spell  of  Italy 

rates  at  good  pensiones  if  one  writes  in  advance 
requesting  it  and  agreeing  to  remain  a  week  or  at 
least  five  days.  There  are  places  where  it  is  necessary 
to  go  to  hotels.  In  general,  my  own  experience 
leads  me  to  seek  out  a  pensione  wherever  I  can.  I 
prefer  the  less  pretentious  life,  the  association  with 
interesting  people,  and  the  usually  lower  prices. 
Rome  is  the  highest-priced  city  we  visited;  there 
we  paid  eight  lire  a  day,  and  our  pensione  was  a 
fine  and  famous  one  on  the  Via  Sistina.  A  better 
location  is  impossible,  and  the  house  was  agreeable. 
Much  more  often  we  paid  seven  Ure;  the  best  pen- 
sione we  found  had  a  uniform  price  of  five  lire  from 
May  to  September,  six  and  seven  from  September 
to  May.  At  this  pensione  (it  is  in  Florence)  we  had 
the  invariable  Italian  breakfast  of  rolls  and  coffee, 
with  the  addition  of  a  delicious  crusty  brown  little 
loaf,  also  jam,  honey,  and  eggs  if  we  chose  to  pay  for 
them.  Luncheon  consisted  of  four  courses,  one  of 
these  usually  macaroni  and  one  always  roast  chicken: 
the  last  course,  six  kinds  of  cheese  and  every  fruit 
obtainable  in  perfection  and  unstinted  abundance. 
Afternoon  tea  was  served  by  the  white  moustached 
butler  Antonio,  in  the  drawing-room,  and  marvel- 
lously good  with  its  inexhaustible  trays  of  plum- 
cake  and  thin  bread  and  butter.  Dinner  was  a 
seven-course  affair  with  vin  ordinaire  included. 
ItaUan     cooking    is    much   like    French;     so    also 


The  City  of  Forestieri  281 

is  the  coffee.     Which    is   to   say   that  it  is   usually 
chicory. 

These  Italian  pensiones  may  not  be  kept  as 
scrupulously  as  we  —  theoretically  at  least  —  keep 
our  own  houses,  but  they  are  quite  as  cleanly  as 
American  boarding-houses  or  hotels  of  the  better 
class,  or  as  those  which  I  have  found  in  Holland, 
Switzerland,  or  France,  and  they  are  always  supplied 
with  good  libraries,  free  to  guests.  The  coolness  of 
the  Italian  houses  in  midsummer  is  marvellous,  and 
is  owing  to  the  immense  thickness  of  the  stone  or 
plaster  walls,  to  the  brick  or  tiled  floors,  to  the  height 
of  the  ceilings,  and  the  great  number  of  tall  casement 
windows,  open  all  night  from  floor  to  ceiling,  barri- 
caded all  day  as  in  state  of  siege  from  the  blinding 
sun.  The  coolness  of  the  houses  and  the  coolness  of 
the  nights,  together  with  the  dryness  of  the  climate 
in  general,  —  barring  sirocco,  —  convinced  me  that 
spring  is  the  time  to  visit  Italy,  lapping  over  into 
summer  as  long  as  one  may.  Ruskin  and  many 
other  men  less  famous  than  he,  and  probably  less 
wise,  declare  summer  the  only  time  to  see  Italy 
truly.  But  one  must  do  as  Italians  do,  —  keep  out 
of  the  sun.  If  caught  in  it  unavoidably,  take  a 
carriage,  precisely  as  one  would  if  caught  in  a 
shower.  The  cost  of  cabs  is  ridiculously  httle,  — 
twenty  to  thirty  cents  a  course  (United  States 
money),  —  and    it    is    in    general    wise    to    make 


282  The  Spell  of  Italy 

liberal  use  of  them.  Nothing  is  so  extravagant  as 
overfatigue. 

The  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  economic  I 
should  state  thus: 

Supposing  that  one  lives  in  the  United  States, 
some  or  anywhere,  on  the  moderate  basis  of  the  large 
and  favoured  class  to  whom  neither  poverty  nor 
wealth  is  allotted,  an  additional  two  hundred  dollars 
for  any  given  four  months  is  enough  to  allow  for  the 
excursion  to  Italy.  This  implies  that  our  share  pro 
rata  of  the  home  expenses  of  all  kinds  amounts  to 
about  ten  dollars  a  week.  In  any  period  of  four 
months  at  home  one  will  be  likely  to  be  at  some  ex- 
pense of  travel;  one's  wardrobe  will  be  replenished 
and  purchases  will  be  made.  The  living  in  Italy 
will  in  the  average  cost  much  the  same  as  at  home, 
the  local  travel  not  essentially  more.  Clothing  can 
be  less  varied  and  costly,  and  for  large  purchases 
we  do  not  allow.  There  is  then  allowance  of  a  hun- 
dred dollars  and  fifty  dollars  for  the  voyage  and  fifty 
dollars  to  play  with.  This  calculation  is  based  upon 
actual  experience  and  careful  cash  accounts.  To 
spend  four  months  in  Italy  with  but  two  hundred 
dollars  margin,  however,  requires  constant  self- 
control  and  good  calculation,  but  it  is  consistent  with 
ease,  comfort,  and  —  bhss! 

I  should  be  glad  to  say  a  word  concerning  the 
desirableness    of    some    knowledge    of    the    Itahan 


The  City  of  Forestieri  283 

language.  Time,  money,  and  temper,  all  are  saved 
to  those  who  have  the  language,  while  whole  vistas 
of  knowledge  and  experience  are  opened  which  re- 
main closed  to  those  who  have  it  not.  Naturally 
if  several  persons  travel  together,  the  use  of  the 
language  by  one  of  the  number  is  all-sufficient  for 
practical  purposes. 

I  think  there  still  lingers  in  many  minds  a  dread 
of  nameless  baleful  influences  abroad  in  Italy,  in 
the  guise  of  impure  waters,  miasmas,  malarias,  and 
the  like.  These  fears  may  safely,  I  believe,  be  rele- 
gated to  the  past,  and  yet  even  in  Italy  common 
sense  is  an  excellent  thing  to  have  about  you.  Al- 
bany has  pernicious  water,  New  Haven  is  malarial, 
but  Americans  seem  to  find  it  possible  to  live  in 
both. 

In  our  Florentine  pensione  I  observed  two  pairs 
of  women  travelhng  without  male  escort,  who  il- 
lustrated respectively  the  perilous  and  the  safe 
method  of  "  doing  "  Italy  in  summer  heat.  The 
first  pair  were  an  Englishwoman  and  an  American 
artist  from  Paris,  who,  travelling  at  first  apart,  struck 
up  a  partnership  in  sightseeing.  They  always  ap- 
peared at  the  breakfast-table  with  hats  on,  "  saddled 
and  bridled  and  ready  for  flight,"  rushing  the  in- 
stant their  coffee  was  swallowed  to  begin  upon  the 
six  churches  or  four  galleries  which  they  had  assigned 
themselves  for  the  forenoon.    At  luncheon  they  would 


284  The  Spell  of  Italy 

appear,  breathless  and  driven,  with  faces  as  scarlet 
as  the  Baedeker  they  laid  beside  their  plates,  while 
they  huiTiedly  consumed  their  food,  discussing 
eagerly  the  best  line  of  march  for  the  next  four  hours. 
From  the  table  another  dash  would  be  made  into 
the  bhthering  heat  of  the  early  afternoon  to  hunt 
up  some  fresco,  some  statue,  some  view,  thus  far 
omitted.  They  never  came  back  for  afternoon  tea, 
which  they  despised  as  a  concession  to  weakness, 
and  only  ended  their  day's  work  in  time  to  lay  off 
their  dusty  garments  for  dinner.  From  dinner  they 
fled  to  their  beds,  too  tired  for  words.  These  two 
women  exulted  in  season  and  out  of  season  in  the 
variety  and  extent  of  their  accomplishments  in 
seeing  Florence,  and  verily  they  had  their  reward. 

The  second  pair  were  an  English  mother  and 
daughter,  who,  with  no  more  time  to  spend  in  Flor- 
ence, spent  it  in  a  different  way  and  in  a  way  which 
I  regard  as  worthy  of  imitation.  They  never  seemed 
in  a  hurry  or  in  a  worry.  They  were  determined 
to  see  a  few  things  and  to  see  them  carefully.  They 
took  breakfast  very  early,  before  most  of  us  appeared, 
and  went  out  directly  to  some  one  of  the  churches 
sure  to  be  opened.  From  the  church  they  went  to 
one  of  the  galleries  for  the  remainder  of  the  forenoon, 
and  came  home  always  in  a  closed  carriage  at  mid- 
day. Luncheon  over,  their  programme  called  for  a 
siesta  of  two  hours  in  their  hushed  and  darkened 


The  City  of  Forestieri  285 

rooms.  After  this  rest  and  an  hour  of  writing  and 
reading,  they  would  appear  in  the  drawing-room 
in  fresh,  light  garments,  cool  and  pleasing  to  the 
eye,  for  the  afternoon  tea.  Their  presence  gave  the 
function  a  touch  of  grace  and  charm;  their  quiet 
tones  and  unhurried  ways  were  a  rest  to  us  all. 

They  were  not  eager  to  impart  or  shriU  in  recount- 
ing any  exploit,  but  rather  seemed  to  me  to  be  brood- 
ing in  radiant  wonder  over  the  things  which  they 
had  felt  even  more  than  they  had  seen.  After  tea 
they  would  drive  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  Cascine, 
to  the  Certosa  or  Fiesole,  or  go  for  a  walk  in  the 
Boboli  Gardens.  The  glories  of  the  ItaHan  summer 
night  were  of  the  privileges  they  prized  highest,  and 
for  hours  they  would  stroll  along  the  Lung'  Arno  and 
the  Bridges.  Thus  they  learned,  unwearied,  in  the 
coolness  that  marvel  of  the  double  span  of  the 
arches,  in  the  river  below,  against  the  crimson  or 
primrose  sky  above,  wliile  the  street  singers  along 
the  parapet  filled  the  silent  spaces  with  "  Sole  mio  " 
and  "  Santa  Lucia  "  and  the  cypresses  of  San  Miniato 
pierced  the  violet  heavens  southward  beyond  the 
river.    They,  too,  had  their  reward. 

A  few  last  paragraphs  of  gossip  concerning  books, 
and  I  will  tell  no  more  in  moui'nful  numbers  of 
this  didactic  strain. 

Since  Mr.  Howells  went,  in  1861,  as  consul  to 
Venice  and  began  writing  about  Italy,   there  has 


286  The  Spell  of  Italy 

sprung  up  a  crop  of  books  on  Italian  travel,  ripening 
to  a  heavy  harvest,  in  addition  to  the  product  of 
earlier  years.  Many  of  these  recent  books  have 
merits  of  their  own,  but  only  a  few  of  them  are  es- 
sential. Of  these  few  some  should  be  read  before 
going  to  Italy,  others  on  the  spot,  while  still  others 
may  very  well  come  later,  illuminated  by  the  journey's 
afterglow. 

We  will  be  thankful  that  we  are  not  obliged  to 
fall  back  with  Ruskin  upon  Rogers's  "  Italy,"  which, 
however,  the  famous  critic  declares,  determined  the 
main  tenor  of  his  life.  Among  older  books  still  vital 
are  "  Roba  di  Roma  "  by  Story,  and  Mrs.  Oliphant's 
admirable  "  Makers  of  Florence  "  and  "  Makers  of 
Venice."  Goethe's  "  ItaHan  Journey  "  remains  in- 
destructible in  interest  by  reason  of  his  genius,  as  do 
also  Shelley's  "  Italian  Letters."  Some,  but,  alas, 
not  all  of  the  latter  have  been  charmingly  arranged 
in  a  chi'onological  sequence,  together  with  the 
poems  of  the  same  years,  by  Anna  McMahan.  Her 
book  is  called  "  With  Shelley  in  Italy."  It  is  an 
almost  incredible  improvement  on  her  earlier  treat- 
ment of  Florence  in  the  poetry  of  the  Brownings. 

Dividing  books  which  seem  to  me  important,  by  a 
necessary  classification,  into  books  historical,  books 
descriptive,  and  books  on  art,  I  would  suggest  in 
the  first,  second,  and  third  divisions  alike  the  writ- 
ings of  John  Addington  Symonds.     His  "  Life  of 


The  City  of  Forestieri  287 

Michelangelo,"  his  "  Age  of  the  Despots,"  his 
"  Renaissance,"  his  "  Italian  Literature,"  are  all 
books  of  the  first  order,  and  almost  constitute  an 
education  in  themselves.  These  are  too  bulky  to 
carry  about  when  one  is  on  the  wing,  but  the  two 
light  Tauchnitz  volumes  of  "  Sketches  in  Italy  "  I 
regard  as  indispensable  adjuncts  of  the  journey. 
There  is  no  second  author  whose  output  upon  this 
chosen  line  seems  to  be  so  superlatively  important  as 
that  of  Symonds,  but  I  regard  the  writings  of  the 
Countess  Martinengo  Cesaresco  as  not  less  valuable  on 
their  own  line,  that  of  the  history  of  Modern  Italy. 
In  this  connection  it  is  a  pleasure  to  call  attention  to 
the  work  of  William  Roscoe  Thayer;  in  particular 
to  his  latest  volume,  "  ItaHca."  Mr.  Thayer  has 
the  honour,  as  far  as  I  am  informed,  of  first  introdu- 
cing the  author  of  "  The  Liberation  of  Italy  "  to 
American  readers  with  some  biographical  detail.  His 
sketch  of  Countess  Cesaresco  was  first  published  in 
The  Nation  in  1903,  and  is  now  reprinted  in  ''  ItaUca." 
English  by  birth,  Italian  by  marriage  and  residence, 
Countess  Cesaresco  is  pecuHarly  fitted  for  the  voca- 
tion of  inspiring  interest  in  modern  Italy  by  the 
enthusiasm  of  her  own  Italian  sympathies.  In  her 
earUest  girlhood  in  an  English  rectory,  Countess 
Cesaresco  —  then  Evelyn  Carrington  —  devoted  the 
ardour  of  a  sincere  and  poetic  nature  to  the  ideals  of 
liberty  embodied  in  Garibaldi  and  his  fellow  patriots, 


288  The  Spell  of  Italy 

then  in  the  thick  of  "  making "  Italy.  Her  first 
hterary  work  was  on  an  Itahan  theme,  and  her  love 
for  Italy  has  been  the  ruHng  passion  of  her  later  life 
and  labour.  This  supreme  interest  was  given  place 
and  permanence  by  Miss  Carrington's  marriage  to 
a  nobleman  of  perhaps  the  most  distinguished  Una 
of  Lombard  patriots,  —  Count  Eugenio  Martinengo 
Cesaresco,  —  and  her  subsequent  residence  in  Italy. 

In  1890  Countess  Cesaresco  published  "  Italian 
Characters  in  the  Epoch  of  Unification,"  breathing, 
as  Mr,  Thayer  justly  says,  into  every  bit  of  biography 
the  breath  of  hfe.  "  The  Liberation  of  Italy " 
appeared  in  1894.  It  tells  the  story  of  the  struggle 
and  victory  of  a  nation  with  a  passionate  patriotism 
always  controlled  by  a  fine  sense  of  justice.  The 
monograph  on  Cavour  (1898)  in  the  Foreign  States- 
men Series,  marks  an  even  higher  literary  achieve- 
ment than  the  earHer  books.  The  distinguishing 
features  of  Countess  Cesaresco's  writing  are  pene- 
trating insight  into  character,  dramatic  instinct  for 
situation,  historical  grasp,  and  compelling  charm,  — 
that  rarest  of  aU  distinctions. 

Bolton  King,  in  his  "  Italy  To-day,"  has  presented 
an  amount  of  general  non-historical  information 
which  is  undeniably  valuable;  the  book,  however, 
seems  to  demand  to  be  written  over  to-morrow,  and 
to-morrow,  and  to-morrow.  It  is  a  ponderous 
volume,  and  yet  it  strikes  one  as  containing  little 


COUNTESS    iMAHTINENGO-CESARESCO. 


The  City  of  Forestieri  289 

of  value  which  is  not  found  in  two  marvellously 
condensed  essays  of  William  Roscoe  Thayer's  in 
the  aforesaid  "  Italica,"  viz.,  "  Thirty  Years  of 
Italian  Progress,"  and  "  Italy  in  1907." 

Among  my  indispensables  are  the  volumes  on 
Siena,  Perugia,  Assisi,  Verona,  etc.,  published  in 
London  by  J.  M.  Dent  and  Company  under  the 
generic  title,  "  Mediaeval  Towns."  These  little  books, 
exquisite  in  artistic  finish,  are  the  result  of  close 
study  by  competent  writers  who  have  gone  into 
more  or  less  prolonged  residence  in  each  town  under 
consideration  for  the  purpose  of  elucidating  its  his- 
tory, legends,  architecture,  and  plastic  art.  Into 
them  are  condensed  the  best  content  of  whole  local 
bibUograpliies.  They  should  be  purchased  on  the 
spot,  to  be  used  there  and  then  and  studied  after- 
wards. The  elaboration  of  detail  makes  them  un- 
desirable for  previous  reading,  as  the  memory  re- 
fuses to  appropriate  such  minutiae  of  material  before 
actual  contact  clarifies  perception. 

More  vitally  suggestive,  perhaps,  than  books 
strictly  concerning  travel  or  art  are  those  which  we 
may  call  Impressions  and  Appreciations.  To  these 
belong  such  books  as  Pater's  and  Vernon  Lee's, 
Hewlett's,  Button's  and  Aii-hur  Symons's.  These 
are  of  varying  value,  and  one  finds  the  charm  of 
humour  only  in  Mr.  Hewlett's.  His  "  Earthwork 
out  of  Tuscany,"  as  w^ell  as  "  The  Road  in  Tuscany," 


290  The  Spell  of  Italy 

is  as  fresh  as  morning,  as  humourous  as  Don  Quixote. 
Mr.  Hutton  is  a  rhapsodist,  and  ahiiost  foams  at  the 
mouth  at  times  for  very  joy  over  his  Italy,  but  his 
is  a  petulant  rapture  and  a  peevish,  and  he  seldom 
starts  to  soar  without  stopping  a  minute  to  kick 
something  or  some  one.  None  the  less  his  "  Cities  of 
Umbria  "  is  a  book  to  depend  upon,  even  though  all 
sympathizers  with  New  Italy  and  all  incredulous  of 
the  miracles  of  his  favourite  saints  have  to  "  catch 
it  "  at  his  hands.  Mr.  Symons  says  many  things 
vividly,  as:  "  Every  road  does  not  lead  to  Rome, 
but  every  road  in  Rome  leads  to  eternity."  "  Since 
I  Uved  in  Rome  I  have  come  to  find  both  London 
and  Paris,  in  themselves,  a  Httle  provincial;  for  I 
find  them  occupied  with  less  eternal  things."  His 
book,  "  Cities  of  Italy,"  is  full  of  colour  and  fine 
characterization. 

We  cannot  leave  fiction  wholly  out  of  the  account, 
since  many  of  us  prefer  getting  our  knowledge  fiction- 
wise  rather  than  otherwise.  And  why  not?  It  has 
been  said  recently  in  high  quarters  that  the  best 
description  of  the  Papal  Conclave  ever  written  is 
that  of  Mr.  Shorthouse  in  "  John  Inglesant."  And 
the  author  of  "  John  Inglesant  "  never  visited  Italy! 
For  that  matter,  neither  did  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 
These  statements  are  true,  though  improbable. 
Unluckily  few  novels  belong  in  the  class  of  "  John 
Inglesant."     I  can  hardly  make  mention  of  those 


The  City  of  Forestieri  291 

of  Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward,  in  which  the  scene  simply 
shifts  now  and  then  to  Italy  for  picturesque  acces- 
sories and  by  reason  of  the  exigencies  of  fiction.  Mrs. 
Wharton  has  given  us  in  "  The  Valley  of  Decision  " 
a  philosophical  and  psychological  study,  rather  than 
a  romance,  of  eighteenth  century  Italy,  always  dis- 
tinguished, usually  dull. 

Mr.  Bagot  writes  controversial  and  somewhat 
mechanical  novels  of  Rome,  in  which  the  Scarlet 
Woman's  robes  seem  always  fluttering  around  the 
corner  ominously.  His  stories  are  interesting,  how- 
ever, to  lightly  read  when  one  is  in  Rome,  giving  a 
gratifying  sense  of  being  behind  the  scenes  and  of 
knowing  what  goes  on  within  the  frowning  palaces, 
even  within  the  Vatican  itself,  which  he  regards  from 
a  strictly  White  viewpoint.  He  says  things  often 
in  a  clever  way,  as:  "  Csesar  had  behevers  in  his 
divinity,  the  Pope  in  his  infallibihty.  Perhaps  he 
beheves  it  himself."  Again:  "  What  is  the  use  of 
holding  the  keys  of  heaven  if  the  Vatican  cannot 
use  them  to  obhge  a  friend?  Instead  of  a  Roman 
Emperor  creating  a  minor  deity,  we  have  a  Roman 
Pontiff  creating  a  saint."  "  We  Latins  have  grafted 
the  rose  of  Christianity  on  the  briar  of  Paganism, 
but  the  stock  is  the  same."  Mr.  Bagot  has  produced 
a  wholly  meritorious  book  on  the  Itahan  lakes,  which 
has  been  exquisitely  illustrated. 

Of  classics  such  as  "  Romola  "  and  "  The  Marble 


292  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Faun  "  what  need  is  there  to  speak?  I  suppose  a 
book  has  become  classic  when  one  collects  illustra- 
tions for  it  at  the  fountain-head  and  has  them  duly 
bound  in  hand-sewed  vellum  or  hand-tooled  calf. 
Thus  robed  for  ascension,  the  book  rises  and  takes 
its  seat  with  the  Immortals.  The  mouth  of  criticism 
is  stopped. 

Mr.  Crawford's  books  are  not  yet  quite  immortal, 
not  even  his  ''  Ave  Roma  Immortalis,"  which  is  big 
but  not  great,  compendious  rather  than  vital  or 
illuminating.  His  novels  of  Italy,  if  not  important, 
are  extremely  readable.  More  I  cannot  say;  I 
could  not  say  less.  He  is  as  definitely  Black  as  Mr. 
Bagot  is  White. 

The  best  novels  of  Italy  are,  after  all,  written  by 
Itahans,  which  seems  fairly  reasonable.  Certain  by 
De  Amicis  have  been  translated  and,  fortunately, 
the  profoundly  significant  Trilogy  of  Senator  Fogaz- 
zaro  is  available  for  English  readers.  To  have  read 
these  books,  "  The  Patriot,"  "  The  Sinner,"  and  "  The 
Saint,"  sympathetically,  is  to  know  New  Italy  from 
within:  its  worst  and  its  best,  its  passion  and  its 
pathos,  its  blindness  and  its  insight.  These  and 
"  John  Inglesant  "  are  the  only  novels  of  Italy  of 
the  first  rank  with  wliich  I  am  acquainted,  except 
we  add  Zola's  "  Rome." 

Among  books  of  travel  the  volumes  of  E.  H.  and 
E.  W.  Blashfield  are  notable,  wliile  the  notes  on 


The  City  of  Forestieri  293 

Vasari's  "  Lives  of  the  Painters,"  by  these  scholars, 
are  suggestive,  concentrated,  and  penetrating. 

I  am  not  of  the  number  who  think  Baedeker's 
guide-books  fit  butt  for  ridicule  and  depreciation,  as 
wooden,  superficial,  and  encyclopedic.  If  they  at- 
tempted art  criticism  they  would  cease  to  be  what  they 
are,  an  indispensable,  practical  guide  in  small  com- 
pass. To  ridicule  them  seems  to  me  to  indicate  one's 
own  superficiality  in  depending  on  them  for  what 
they  do  not  profess  or  purport  to  give,  rather  than 
to  reflect  discredit  on  them.  Grant  Allen's  various 
local  guides  are  extremely  good  working  adjuncts  to 
Baedeker,  although  often  amusing  by  reason  of  the 
author's  peculiar  prepossessions  and  descriptive  ad- 
jectives. His  "  ugly  and  florid  "  frescoes,  "  vulgar 
and  insipid "  decorations,  "  ugly,  late  angels," 
"  debased  balconies,"  and  "  bad  capitals  "  become 
the  bywords  of  travellers.  A  small  pamplilet  by 
Mrs.  M.  S.  Hall,  called  "  What  to  See  in  the  Great 
Galleries  of  Europe,"  by  reason  of  its  size  and  lucidity 
of  arrangement,  is  a  relief  when  the  larger  and  more 
comphcated  guides  become  wearisome  to  hand  and 
eye. 

It  can  fairly  be  said  that  the  traveller  who  has 
familiarized  himself  with  the  studies  in  Renais- 
sance Art  of  Mr.  Bernhard  Berenson  is  well  prepared 
for  the  study  of  Italian  painting.  Possibly  some 
better  books  may  yet  be  written  than  these  and 


294  The  Spell  of  Italy 

the  Blashfield  Vasari,  but  they  have  not  been  written 
up  to  the  present  moment. 

For  the  necessary  knowledge  of  the  Hves  of  the 
saints,  Mrs,  Jameson's  compilations  remain  the 
standard  of  comprehensive  detailed  completeness. 
Mrs.  Clement's  "  Saints  in  Art,"  in  abridged  form, 
is  more  convenient  for  hasty  reference.  There  are 
many  excellent  lives  of  St.  Francis  and  St.  Catherine 
of  Siena.  I  prefer  Sabatier's  life  of  Francis  and  that 
by  the  author  of  "  Mademoiselle  Mori  "  of  Catherine. 
Edmund  Gardner's  St.  Catherine  is  more  exhaustive, 
however. 

It  is  hopeless  to  try  to  enumerate  the  specialized 
art  books  which  have  sprung  up  around  every  Italian 
gallery,  such  as  Julia  Addison's  "  Art  of  the  Pitti 
Palace  "  and  Mary  Potter's  "  Art  of  the  Vatican." 
They  are  a  luxuiious  delight  to  one  who  has  learned 
to  love  the  world  into  which  they  lead. 

There  are  other  books  of  sumptuous  beauty  wliich 
convey  a  thrill  of  almost  sensuous  longing  to  the 
book-lover  and  Italy-lover,  but  their  name  is  legion. 
Time  and  space  fail;  I  sit  no  longer  in  the  city  gate 
as  judge  and  adviser,  but  turn  to  take  up  again  my 
pilgrim  staff  and  cockle-shell. 

The  last  evening  of  our  stay  in  Florence  was  spent 
up  aloft  at  "  John  Milton's  Fiesole,"  with  a  few 
friends  who  suppt^d  with  us  al  fresco  on  the  bit  of 
lawn  before  the  old  Franciscan  convent.    A  brown- 


The  City  of  Forestieri  295 

gowned  brother  brought  us  cold  water  in  a  long- 
necked,  straw-encased  flask,  while  three  brown- 
eyed  children  looked  on  with  restrained  rapture  at 
us  and  at  the  food  of  which  we  partook.  Wlicn  these 
three  had  been  satisfied  and  our  friends  had  hurried 
away,  having  other  engagements  ahead  of  them, 
Filia  and  I  came  with  an  unhurried  young  man  from 
the  Boston  Tech,  to  the  old  stone  seat  behind  the 
parapet  on  the  terrace  overlooking  all  Florence  and 
the  Val  d'Arno. 

I  read  then  to  these  two  from  my  note-book  a 
part  of  the  foregoing  travel  hints  and  bookish  sug- 
gestions. When  I  stopped  reading  Fiha  sat  in  silence, 
looking  off  over  the  landscape  for  a  moment,  and 
then  asked,  mischievously: 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  Ruskin?  " 

"  For  me,  I  have  cut  his  acquaintance  entirely," 
gaily  interposed  the  Boston  Tech  young  man;  "  Hke 
Henry  James,  I  refuse  to  be  so  bullied  by  any  one. 
*  Mornings  in  Florence  '  is  more  than  can  be  borne. 
You  know  the  rock  on  which  Mr,  James  split  —  that 
awful  dictum  concerning  Ruskin's  favourite  chapel  in 
Santa  Maria  Novella?  — '  If  you  can  be  pleased 
with  this,  you  can  see  Florence.  But  if  not,  by  all 
means  amuse  yourself  there,  if  you  find  it  amusing, 
as  long  as  you  hke;  you  can  never  see  it! '  " 

"Sir  Oracle!"  laughed  Filia.  "I  think  he  is 
quite,  quite  too  terrible.    And  you  know  the  critics 


296  The  Spell  of  Italy 

now  say  he  admired  the  wrong  things  half  the  time 
in  that  fast  and  furious  way  of  his." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  should  always  read  him,"  I 
rephed,  "if  I  felt  sure  that  I  had  moral  stamina 
sufficient  to  hold  my  own  against  his  fierce  dogma- 
tism. He  made  mistakes,  and  some  he  saw  and  ac- 
knowledged, but  I  behcve  the  whole  initiative  for 
the  study  of  Italian  art  in  our  time  was  his.  He  is 
the  dynamo  at  which  all  the  rest  have  kindled  their 
sparks,  for  he  discovered,  first  of  modern  EngHsh- 
men,  the  treasures  here  and  *  stabbed  our  spirits 
broad  awake.'  " 

"  I  loved  him  before  he  got  learned,  when  he  was 
about  as  big  as  I,"  commented  Fiha,  "  and  had  never 
heard  of  a  good  emperor  or  a  good  Pope,  and  sup- 
posed the  malaria  in  the  Campagna  to  be  the  con- 
sequence of  the  Papacy!  " 

"  Delicious,"  said  the  Bostonian.  "  I  did  not 
know  that  Ruskin  could  be  funny.  By  the  way, 
are  you  running  out  of  adjectives?  "  As  he  spoke 
he  drew  a  small  address  book  from  liis  pocket.  We 
both  confessed  to  alarming  exhaustion. 

"  Here  are  a  few  I  cribbed  from  Vernon  Lee.  She 
has  thirty-seven  in  a  string  on  Botticelli,  —  '  eager, 
earnest,  pale  young  faces,'  '  wavy  hair  streaked  with 
gold  threads,'  '  sHm,  erect,  quaint,  staglike  figures, 
all  draped  in  tissues  embroidered  with  roses  and  corn 
and  gillyflowers,'  *  delicate,  wreathed  tresses  droop- 


The  City  of  Forestieri  297 

ing  on  to  infinitely   crinkled   and   half-transparent 
white  veils/  '  defiant,'  *  fascinating/  '  capricious  —  '  " 
"Hold!     Have  done!"    cried  Filia.     "I  can  no 
more/' 


XV 

VERONA 

|E  arrived  in  Verona  just  before  dinner, 
after  an  interesting  and  easy  journey, 
and  drove  directly  to  an  Italian  pensione 
in  the  Via  Nuova, 
By  the  time  we  had  reached  the  salad  I  was  in  an 
excellent  humour,  and  Filia  chose  this  as  the  psy- 
chological moment  for  proposing  that  we  see  what 
we  could  to-night,  as  we  had  but  the  one  day 
following  and  Verona  was  said  to  be  inexhaustible. 

"  I  insist  on  taking  ices  in  a  cafe  in  the  Piazza 

Vittorio  Emanuele,  and  seeing  Ufe,"  she  announced. 

"  But  we  have  no  man  to  go  with  us,"  I  objected. 

"  But,  Angel  Mother,  this  is  just  a  provincial  town, 

where  the  people  are  as  peaceful  and  sedate  as  in  a 

New  England  village." 

"  I'm  afraid,  Filia,"  I  remarked,  severely,  "  that 
you  have  not  been  reading  up  your  history  if  you 
consider  the  Veronese  a  peaceful  people." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have,  but  the  rows  they  used  to  in- 
dulge in  are  all  over  now,  though  the  Contessa  said 

298 


Verona  299 

that  there  are  still  family  feuds,  and  they  make  much 
of  caste  and  class  distinction  even  to-day.  But  they 
don't  *  up  and  smite '  each  other  the  way  they  used 
to.    They  just  glare  and  ignore." 

"  I  see.  Well,  tell  me  what  you  can  about  the 
history.  You  monopoHzed  the  Baedeker  all  the  way 
from  Mantua,  and  ought  to  have  gleaned  some- 
thing." 

"  Indeed  I  have,"  declared  Filia,  complacently, 
"  and  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know.  Verona  was  founded 
by  somebody,  and  afterwards  was  made  a  Roman 
colony." 

I  smiled  at  this  triumphant  beginning.  "  Plausible 
but  not  over  intelligent,"  I  said.     "  Go  on." 

"  In  the  Roman  period  it  was  veiy  prosperous. 
Then  came  the  Goths;  Theodoric  the  Great  lived 
here,  and  there  are  lots  of  legends  about  him.  Then 
the  Lombards  took  it.  Then  the  Franks,  and  by  and 
by  came  the  period  when  the  Guelphs  and  Ghi- 
bellines  fought  so  fiercely.  The  GhibeUines  gained 
the  upper  hand  and  the  Scahgers  started  their  grand 
period.  They  were  some  of  them  very  good,  and 
some  of  them  very  bad,  and  almost  all  of  them  were 
'  Cans.'  " 

"  '  Cans?  '  "  I  repeated,  perplexed. 

"  Yes.  '  Can  '  This,  That,  and  The  Other.  The 
most  noted  one  was  Can  Grande  First,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fourteenth  century.    He  was  a  splendid 


300  The  Spell  of  Italy 

patron  of  art  and  letters,  and  among  others  Dante 
came  as  an  exile  to  liis  court." 
"To  be  sure: 

"  '  Thine  earliest  refuge  and  thine  earliest  inn 
Shall  be  the  mighty  Lombard's  courtesy 
Who  on  the  ladder  bears  the  holy  bird.' 

"  What  would  I  not  give,  Filia,  to  remain  long 
enough  to  read  Dante  here  in  Verona!  I  beheve  I 
could  feel  him  here  better  even  than  in  Florence. 
The  town  looks  so  much  more  like  him  some  way; 
the  streets  are  so  much  more  picturesque.  One  can 
fancy  him  proud  and  tortured,  tasting  Can  Grande's 
food  and  finding  it  salt,  and  treading  his  steep  stairs, 
—  the  dependent,  the  exile,  eating  out  his  own  heart 
all  the  while  for  love  and  hate  of  his  Florence." 

"  What  would  I  give  for  my  Rossetti  this  minute!  " 
cried  Filia.  "  I  had  forgotten  all  about  that  splendid 
poem  of  his,  *  Dante  at  Verona.'  What  is  it  he  says 
about  the  taunts  the  women  used  to  throw  at  Dante 
in  the  streets?  " 

Later  we  had  access  to  the  poem  in  question,  and 
from  it  I  subjoin  a  few  spirited  verses: 

"  For  a  tale  tells  that  on  his  track, 
As  through  Verona's  streets  he  went, 
This  saying  certain  women  sent,  — 
*  Lo,  he  that  strolls  to  Hell  and  back, 
At  will,  behold  him,  how  Hell's  reek 
Has  crisped  his  beard  and  singed  his  cheek  I ' 


Verona  301 

"  Whereat  (Boccaccio's  words)  '  he  smiled 
For  pride  in  fame.'     It  might  be  so  : 
Nevertheless  we  cannot  know 
If  haply  he  were  not  beguil'd 
To  bitterer  mirth,  who  scarce  could  tell 
If  he  indeed  were  back  from  Hell." 

As  Filia  had  won  her  point,  we  now  started  down 
the  narrow  Via  Nuova  with  its  high  houses  and  quaint 
litter  of  shops  on  either  side;  its  people  loafing  along 
in  the  direction  we  were  taking,  like  ourselves  seemed 
to  enjoy  the  top  of  the  evening  to  the  top  of  their 
bent.  Often  here  and  in  the  Piazza  we  were  struck 
by  little  windows  and  balconies  shaped  after  some  old 
Renaissance  pattern;  by  aged  frescoes,  and  by 
monsters  small  and  great,  roughly  carved.  And  then 
when  we  brought  our  gaze  back  to  the  street  again 
we  were  met  by  genre  bits,  such  as  a  primitive  old 
Water-carrier  with  his  shining  copper  cans,  vending 
"  acqua  pura,"  and  the  Hke.  It  was  all  so  naive  and 
old-world  that  we  could  hardly  believe  it  to  be  a 
thriving  modern  town  with  an  "  extensive  trade  in 
agricultural  produce  and  various  manufactures." 

The  broad,  curved  sweep  of  the  Piazza  now  swam 
rosy  in  the  sunset  light,  and  the  Veronese  marbles 
of  the  buildings  round  about  glowed  ruddy  in  the 
sun's  last  rays.  Before  us  stood  the  skeleton  of  the 
mighty  Amphitheatre,  stern  and  grizzled  by  antiq- 
uity, with  the  strength  and  self-contained  beauty 
of  the  antique  Roman  masonry. 


302  The  Spell  of  Italy 

We  sat  down  outside  a  cafe  and  ordered  "granita/' 
and  then  fell  silent  as  we  studied  the  Amphitheatre, 
picturing  to  ourselves  the  great  cycles  of  Sport  that 
had  followed  one  another  in  the  pitiless  sequence  of 
man's  whim:  sport  that  was  bloody  and  barbarous; 
sport  that  was  graceful  and  chivalrous;  sport  that 
victimized  those  in  the  Arena  and  brutaUzed,  even 
while  it  diverted,  those  on  the  Tiers.  All  was  now 
hushed  and  spectral,  the  scarred,  wasted  stone 
standing  like  the  ghost  of  an  obsolete  delight. 

Night  came  on  rapidly.  The  crowd  increased. 
Officers  from  the  large  Verona  garrison  lounged 
about  talking  and  smoking  in  groups,  while  men  and 
women  with  sleepy  bambini  chatted  over  their 
drinks.  Near  by  a  band  struck  into  a  gay  gallop  of 
nmsic,  provocative  of  laughter  and  gaiete  de  coeur. 

Our  eyes  now  travelled  from  the  old  Guard  House 
over  to  the  gateway  of  the  Visconti,  carved  into  such 
exquisite  forms  that  some  one  has  called  it  "  a  point 
of  flight  for  dreams."  Filia  began  earnestly  to  en- 
lighten me  regarding  the  Visconti  domination  in 
Verona  and  the  later  Venetian  vassalage,  but,  as 
three  officers  were  beginning  to  stare,  I  thought  best 
to  take  my  gentile  guida  back  to  the  shelter  of  our 
goodly  Albergo. 

She  demurred,  but  for  once  I  was  strong-minded 
and  we  returned  through  the  Via  Nuova,  Filia 
iterating  that  it  was  going  to  be  impossible  to  do 


Verona  303 

Verona  in  a  day,  and  I  reiterating  that  we  must  go 
on  to  Milan  whether  or  no. 

At  last  we  reached  our  room,  big  and  prim,  looking 
as  though  it  had  espoused  poverty,  chastity,  and 
obedience.  By  candlchght  we  then  retired,  I  pre- 
ferring it  to  the  glaring  electric  hght  which  emphasized 
the  mediaeval  stiffness  and  made  me  almost  homesick. 
Later  I  heard  FiUa  murmuring  vaguely  as  she  dropped 
off  to  sleep : 

"  I  thought  there  were  only  Two  Gentlemen  in 
Verona." 

The  following  morning  before  nine  o'clock  we  stood 
in  the  Piazza  Erbe.  About  the  square  were  endlessly 
diverse  houses,  each  with  a  distinct  personality, 
dating  from  a  different  century  and  seeming  to  de- 
light in  being  typical  of  its  epoch.  In  the  midst  of 
the  place,  once  an  ancient  forum,  were  innumerable 
fruit  and  vegetable  stalls,  with  big,  saucy  umbrellas 
raised  above  them  to  keep  off  the  sun.  Under  these 
were  venders  in  haphazard,  party-coloured  costumes 
crying  their  wares,  and  about  them  were  grouped 
eager  buyers,  exchanging  dirty  hre  for  not  immaculate 
eatables.  Every  conceivable  colour  was  there,  mov- 
ing in  kaleidoscopic  variety  against  a  background  of 
antique  Tribuna,  Venetian  column,  Baroque  palaces, 
Ghibelline  battlements,  old  Roman  architecture,  and 
Renaissance  balconies.  Truly  the  march  of  Time 
had  left  its  stamp  in  stone  on  Verona,  maldng  it. 


304  The  Spell  of  Italy 

in  Filia's  mind,  the  most  fascinating  of  the  towns  we 
had  yet  visited.  For  myself,  Perugia  still  held  me 
loyal,  but  I  had  to  admit  that  this  Piazza  had  a 
picturesque  opulence  beyond  anything  we  had  so 
far  seen  in  Italy. 

We  now  walked  to  the  Piazza  dei  Signori.  Most 
notable  was  the  Palazzo  della  Ragione,  the  ancient 
Court  of  Justice,  founded  at  the  close  of  the  twelfth 
century.  The  exterior  was  interesting  and  beautiful 
as  well  because  of  the  richness  of  carving  and  design, 
wliile  the  impression  made  by  the  inner  court  was 
wholly  satisfying.  At  one  side  a  flight  of  stairs  rose 
in  exquisite  gradation  upon  graceful  pillars,  leading 
at  last  into  a  perfectly  proportioned  archway.  It 
reminded  us  of  the  stairs  in  the  Bargello  at  Florence; 
the  whole  court,  in  fact,  suggested  that. 

Returning  to  the  square,  we  now  studied  the 
Palazzo  del  Consigho,  one  of  the  finest  buildings  in 
Northern  Italy.  It  is  in  the  early  Renaissance  style, 
and  is  supposed  to  have  been  planned  by  Fra  Gia- 
condo.  This  architect  was  new  to  Filia  and  me,  but 
we  now  discovered  him  to  be  one  of  the  most  famous 
artists  of  the  early  Renaissance  period.  San  Micheli 
was  also  a  discovery,  and  throughout  the  remainder 
of  our  day  we  were  everywhere  drawn  by  the  beauty 
and  charm  of  the  work  of  these  two  men.  A  very 
noble  statue  of  Dante  interested  us  deeply.  We  were 
beginning  to  realize  how  intimately  connected  Dante 


TOMB    OP    CAN    SIGNORIO. 


Verona  305 

was  with  certain  great  days  of  Verona,  We  had  heard 
that  somewhere  there  was  a  chair  in  which  he  had 
sat,  but  Fiha  refused  to  hunt  it  up,  saying: 

"  He  and  Savonarola  sat  down  so  often  that  I 
can't  keep  track  of  their  chairs  and  I  don't  intend  to." 

When  Fiha  spoke  in  that  way  I  knew  her  to  be 
inexorable,  so  I  banished  the  cherished  chair  from 
my  mind  and  examined  the  odd,  old  marble  archway 
through  which  we  were  passing.  It  was  much  Hke 
many  others  that  span  the  narrow  streets  of  the  town 
and  charmingly  frame  little  vistas.  We  soon  reached 
the  church  of  Santa  Maria  Antica,  used  by  the 
Scaligers  as  their  private  chapel.  Outside  stand  the 
splendid  monuments  that  mark  the  tombs  of  this 
great  family.  Their  device  is  the  golden  ladder  in  a 
red  field  surmounted  by  a  black  eagle.  Whether 
the  eagle  mounted  by  bloodshed  or  beneficence  to  its 
high  position  in  Verona's  history  and  in  that  of  all 
Italy,  is  not  quite  clear.  Most  notable  of  the  tombs 
is  that  of  Can  Grande  I,  with  his  figure  recumbent 
below,  and  an  impressive  equestrian  statue  of  him  on 
the  canopy  above.  Most  gorgeous  of  all  was  the  tomb 
of  Can  Signorio,  but  each  one  is  decorated  with  a 
prodigaUty  of  carved  handwork.  The  Veronese 
artists  of  bygone  times  seem  to  have  excelled  in 
monumental  sculpture,  and  it  is  here  that  the  Gothic 
tomb  reaches  its  consummate  form. 

Filia  and  I  felt  our  imaginations  captured  by  these 


306  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

grave  old  figures  of  giant  men  who  dominated  this 
city,  once  a  stormy  centre  of  strife.  Here  "  swords 
were  never  rusty.  A  warning  clang  from  the  belfry, 
two  or  three  harsh  strokes,  the  tall  houses  disgorged, 
the  streets  packed;  Capulet  faced  Montague,  Bevilac- 
qua  caught  Ridolfi  by  the  throat,  and  Delia  Scala 
sitting  in  his  hall  knew  that  he  must  do  murder  if  he 
would  live  hke  a  prince."  Filia  had  a  copy  of  "  Little 
Novels  of  Italy,"  with  her,  and  it  was  thus  that  she 
read  aloud  to  me  as  we  studied  the  tombs.  Running 
through  the  pages,  she  then  continued  with  the 
description  of  Verona  the  day  following  the  murder 
of  Can  Grande  II,  at  the  place  now  called  Volto 
Barbaro: 

"  '  A  scared  city  of  blank  casements,  a  city  of 
swift  feet  and  hushed  voices.  .  .  .  Nobody  mourned 
the  man.  .  .  .  His  yellow-skinned  wife  knelt  at  his 
feet,  and  Can  Signorio,  the  new  tyrant,  frozen  rigid, 
armed  in  mail,  knelt  at  his  head.'  " 

FiUa  closed  the  book,  and,  much  impressed,  we 
moved  along  the  Corso  to  the  church  of  Sant'  Anas- 
tasia.  On  entering  we  were  dehghted  by  the  bold- 
ness and  symmetry  in  the  proportions  of  this  ancient 
Gothic,  Dominican  edifice.  The  Holy  Water  Basin, 
just  at  the  left  of  the  entrance,  was  very  curious, 
supported  by  a  fantastic  Httle  dwarf  (Gobbo),  at- 
tributed to  the  father  of  Paolo  Veronese.  After 
giving  the  church  a  hasty  survey,  and  studying  for  a 


Verona  307 

moment  the  statue  of  Veronese  in  front  of  it,  we 
proceeded  to  the  Cathedral. 

It  is  a  Romanesque  structure  with  a  quaint  portal, 
flanked  by  columns  and  griffins,  while  above  in  relief 
are  Roland  and  OHver.  We  merely  glanced  inside, 
as  our  time  was  flying  fast,  and  went  on  along  the 
broad  quay,  ascending  the  right  bank  of  the  Adige. 

At  length  we  halted  and  watched  the  scene  about 
us  with  poignant  pleasure.  The  river  flows  in  a 
sinuous  S  shape,  a  violent,  turbid  stream,  flinging 
itself  tumultuously  along  under  the  ancient,  bruised 
bridges.  It  turns  numberless  primitive  wheels  that 
line  its  sides  every  few  hundred  feet,  and  by  this 
means  the  unwilhng  water  is  forced  out  into  pipes 
that  irrigate  the  country  of  the  Venetia  round  about. 
In  the  olden  time  high  houses  straggled  down  to  the 
river,  and  women  used  to  bring  their  clothes  here 
and  rinse  and  pummel  and  wring  them  into  some 
semblance  of  cleanliness,  gossiping  the  while  over 
lovers  and  husbands  and  children.  Now,  however, 
the  steep  embankments  insist  that  the  imperious 
Adige  keep  her  course  and  not  overflow  the  sur- 
rounding district,  as  was  once  her  habit  when  the 
mood  seized  her. 

From  here  we  gained  a  good  view  of  the  wonderful, 
mystic  Lago  di  Garda,  and  as  we  paused  Fiha  once 
more  opened  her  Hewlett  (she  eschewed  Baedeker 
to-day)  and  read,  "  '  This  is  the  garden  of  Italy  set 


308  The  Spell  of  Italy 

apart  betwixt  Alp  and  Apennine.  God  has  filled  it 
with  every  sort  of  fruit  and  herb  and  flowering  tree; 
has  watered  it  abundantly  with  noble  rivers;  neither 
stinted  it  of  deep  shade  nor  removed  it  too  far  from 
the  kindly  stroke  of  the  sun;  has  caused  it  to  be 
graced  here  and  enriched  there  with  diverse  great 
and  grave  cities.  Out  of  that  lake  of  rustling  leaves 
rise,  like  the  masts  of  ships  crowding  a  port,  church 
towers,  the  belfries  of  pious  convents,  the  domes  and 
turrets  of  great  buildings  walled  into  cities;  among 
which  are  the  Vicenza,  Treviso,  Mantua,  Ferrara, 
Padua,  Verona/ "  Yes,  Verona  la  Degna  (the 
Worthy)  was  all  before  us,  and  we  felt  ourselves  pos- 
sessed by  a  spirit  of  reverence  and  gratitude  as  we 
stood,  permitted  to  gaze  upon  it.  Here  Art  and 
Nature  had  met,  and  pouring  every  resource  into 
the  crucible  of  centuries,  had  evolved  a  city  of  rare 
individuality,  of  dread  dignity,  and  of  imperishable 
beauty. 

We  now  reached  the  church  of  Sant'  Eufemia. 
FUia's  only  remark  was,  "  I've  '  thrown  a  hate  on 
churches,'  as  the  Httle  Mick  said,"  and  she  hurried 
me  by  and  along  to  the  Corso  Cavour.  This  is  one 
of  the  principal  streets  of  Verona,  and  contains  old 
palaces,  statues,  and  churches  of  bewildering  in- 
terest. On  we  went  to  the  Piazzetta  del  Castel 
Veccliio,  from  which  we  obtained  an  excellent  view 
of  the  imposing,  pinnacled  bridge  that  leads  over  to 


Verona  309 

Veronetta,  built  by  Can  Grande  II  in  the  fourteenth 
century.  We  next  wove  our  way  through  small 
streets  back  to  the  Piazza  Vittorio  Emanuele,  and 
from  there  to  our  pensione  for  lunch. 

After  we  had  satisfied  that  awful  sightseeing 
hunger,  whose  pangs  gnaw  so  hard  when  you  allow 
yourself  to  stop  and  reaHze  them,  we  went  up  to  our 
room.  I  plunged  into  my  siesta,  while  FiUa  en- 
sconced herself  in  the  one  comfortable  chair  in  the 
room  and,  with  her  elbows  propped  on  the  table,  she 
read  aloud  from  Romeo  and  Juhet  in  an  impassioned 
voice. 

« « Nay,  I'll  conjure  too.     Romeo  !     Humours  I 
Madman  I     Passion  I     Lover  I 
Appear  thou  — '  " 

"  Fiha,  you  will  have  to  let  me  sleep,"  I  exclaimed, 
pettishly,  from  my  hard  bed. 

"  But,  dearly  beloved,  I  must  get  the  flavour  of 
Verona,  and  this  play  is  just  potted  local  colour. 
It  quite  charms  my  soul." 

"  I  can't  help  that.  I  refuse  to  go  out  with  you 
this  afternoon  if  you  don't  let  me  sleep  now." 

When  I  awoke  it  was  to  see  Fiha  bending  above 
me,  brandishing  her  Temple  Shakespeare  as  though 
it  were  a  short-sword,  and  groaning  out  in  a  high 
tragedy  tone: 

« *  Eyes,  look  your  last ;   Arms,  take  your  last  embrace ;   and 
Lips,  oh,  you  — ' " 


310  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  Oh,  you!  "  I  cried,  laughing  in  spite  of  myself. 
"  Wliy  couldn't  you  let  your  poor  old  mother  sleep 
in  peace?  " 

"  I  really  am  forced  to  remind  you  that  we 
have  still  to  do  San  Zeno,  Juliet's  Tomb,  and  the 
Giusti  Gardens.  And  that  leaves  out  entirely  the 
whole  Veronese  School  of  Painting,  the  Crown  of 
Castles,  the  trips  to  Sirmione,  Soave,  Salo,  and 
Villa  Franca,  and  San  Fermo  and  San  Paolo  —  " 

''Mercy,  Filia,  stop,  or  I  shall  lose  my  reason!" 
I  implored,  sitting  up,  my  thoughts,  which  had  been 
in  Boston,  coming  back  to  Verona.  "  We  will  do 
those  three  things  you  first  mentioned,  and  then  I'm 
done." 

"  And  you  don't  want  even  to  see  San  Fermo  and 
San  Paolo?  "   queried  Filia,  shocked. 

"I  protest  against  any  more  'Sans!'  They  are 
worse  than  the  '  Cans.'  No,  I  don't  care  at  all  what 
we  miss,"  I  persisted. 

"  Consider  the  rudimentary  intelligence  of  those 
people  who  told  us  that  one  day  was  enough  for 
Verona,"  muttered  FiUa,  vindictively. 

I  thought  this  language  rather  strong,  but  was  too 
weak  to  remonstrate,  for  Filia  had  been  so  firm  with 
me  all  day  that  I  was  much  in  fear  of  her.  So,  feeling 
like  a  female  Lear,  dragged  to  my  death  by  an  un- 
natural daughter  who  was  rapidly  developing  into 
a  sightseeing  Regan,  I  made  a  little  toilet,  then  arming 


Verona  311 

myself  with  the  despised  Baedeker,  I  started  out, 
with  some  shght  martyr  air,  Filia  radiant  at  my  side. 

Later  we  found  ourselves  in  San  Zeno,  one  of  the 
important  Romanesque  churches  of  Northern  Italy. 
The  columns  of  the  portal  rest  on  hons  of  red  marble, 
and  the  doors  are  carved  in  bronze  reUefs  from  the 
Bible  and  the  life  of  San  Zeno.  These  are  probably 
the  work  of  German  artists  and  are  most  beautiful. 
The  proportions  of  the  interior  are  imposing  for  a 
flat-roofed  basilica,  never  religiously  suggestive.  The 
choir  screen  and  entrance  arches  to  the  crypt  are 
full  of  grace  and  massive  charm.  The  lofty  tower 
and  cloister,  with  elegant  double  columns,  are 
especially  interesting,  being  the  remains  of  a  convent 
long  since  suppressed,  repeatedly  inhabited  by  medi- 
aeval German  emperors  on  their  journeys  to  Rome. 
Both  Filia  and  I  were  constantly  surprised  at  the 
intimate  connection  which  Germany  has  had  with 
Italy,  using  the  Tyrol,  Lago  di  Garda,  and  Verona 
as  its  door  of  entrance.  This  whole  church  we 
found  full  of  interest,  and  we  spent  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon  there,  as  it  remained  open  late,  thanks 
to  a  timely  Festa. 

At  six  we  made  a  hurried  trip  to  JuUet's  Tomb. 
This  I  would  gladly  have  omitted,  but  FiUa  was 
again  inexorable,  and  so  we  went.  We  found  it  in 
unpoetical  juxtaposition  to  the  Horse  Market,  all  its 
surroundings    prosaic    and    unattractive,    for    they 


312  The  Spell  of  Italy 

looked  much  like  an  American  county  fair-ground. 
At  length  we  approached  a  plain,  neat,  brick  structure; 
enclosed  on  two  sides,  beneath,  a  broken  sarcophagus 
without  character  or  cover,  half-filled  with  tourists' 
calling  cards.  Filia  was  quite  overcome  with  amuse- 
ment at  Juliet's  "  at  home." 

The  following  morning  we  had  an  early  breakfast, 
and,  having  tipped  every  one  in  sight,  we  sent  our 
luggage  to  the  station  by  a  facchino,  and  ourselves 
started  for  the  Giardino  Giusti,  not  too  much  out 
of  our  way  to  the  Stazione  Porta  Vescovo.  The 
Giardino  proved  to  be  a  beautiful  park  where  we 
could  wander  at  will  along  green  alleys,  flanked  by 
huge  cypress-trees,  four  and  five  hundred  years  old. 
Slowly  we  ascended  the  terraces  which  rise  one  above 
another,  with  groups  of  cypresses  on  each,  perfect 
in  their  antique  beauty,  making  the  place  a  marvel- 
lous sanctuary  of  Gothic  greenery,  sombre  and  as- 
piring; while  everywhere  under  our  feet  were  mosaics 
of  grass  and  flowers,  and  here  and  there  were  fonts, 
not  of  stale  holy  water,  but  of  pure  spring  water, 
dripping  crystalline  drops  into  stone  basins. 

We  went  all  the  way  around  in  order  that  we  might 
reach  the  highest  view-terrace  and  mount  the  little 
turret  there.  From  this  point  of  vantage  we  had  a 
wonderful  panorama  of  all  Verona,  the  Adige,  the 
blue  Lombard  plain,  and  the  plain  of  Venetia  as 
far  as   Mantua,  then   farther  still   to   Padua,  and 


Verona  313 

farthest  off  of  all  to  the  dim,  mirage  city,  Venice, 
Queen  of  the  Adriatic.  We  saw  where  the  Apennines 
meet  the  Brescian  Alps,  and  just  there  "  jocund  day  " 
seemed  standing  "  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain 
tops,"  as  says  the  gentle  Shakespeare  of  this  very 
scene. 

And  now,  as  we  stood,  we  seemed  to  see,  passing 
in  review  before  us,  Theodoric  the  Ostrogoth,  Virgil, 
Catullus,  the  younger  Pliny,  Livy,  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Shakespeare,  the  Scaligers,  Mantegna,  Titian,  Cor- 
reggio,  Paolo  Veronese,  —  all  who  had  at  one  time 
passed  this  way,  living  a  small  section  of  their 
life,  and  some,  perhaps,  all  their  life,  at  Verona. 
The  thought  thrilled  us,  and  again,  as  so  often  in 
Italy,  we  seemed  fairly  encompassed  by  the  glorious 
cloud  of  witnesses.  The  beauty  of  the  morning 
filled  us,  and  Fiha  and  I  clasped  each  other's 
hands,  feeling  that  it  was  all  too  passion-perfect  to 
endure. 

Then  with  an  impulsive  little  gesture  Fiha  stretched 
her  arms  out  over  Verona,  as  if  she  wished  actively 
to  possess  it,  and  kissing  her  finger-tips  to  it,  she 
breathed  softly: 

"  Addio,  Verona  la  Degna."  Turning  to  me  then, 
she  said,  quietly,  "  Come,  mother  dear,  we  must  go. 
Now  for  Milan."    And  so  we  left. 

It  was  here  that  we  learned  the  folly  of  cutting 
ourselves  off  ^ith  visits  of  but  a  day. 


XVI 

IN   THE    NORTH 

[T  Milan  I  was  by  way  of  assuming  a  wholly 
new  role,  that  of  chaperone-at-large.  Four 
of  Filia's  college  friends,  Barbara,  Lucia, 
Margherita,  and  Diana,  telegraphed  from 
Venice  to  inquire  if  they  might  flock  to  our  banners 
and  travel  hereinafter  under  our  convoy.  We  repHed, 
Si,  si,  si,  si,  and  they  forthwith  appeared  upon  the 
scene,  trailing  clouds  of  luggage,  silver  mirrors,  and 
pale  chiffon  veils,  and  making  the  chambers  of  the 
Metropole  ring  with  light  laughter. 

It  was  inevitable  that  I  should  now  be  known  as 
St.  Ursula  and  my  charges  as  "  the  Virgins,"  this 
famous  legend  having  been  so  frequently  set  before 
us  in  Italian  art,  and  we  were,  in  fact,  thus  desig- 
nated throughout  the  remainder  of  our  pilgrimage. 
We  were  a  harmonious  company  and  well  agreed, 
nevertheless  it  seemed  now  to  take  twice  as  long  to 
start  and  three  times  as  long  to  finish  every  under- 
taking as  it  had  done  before;  and  one  tourists'  bug- 
bear, heretofore  escaped,  for  ever  dogged  our  steps, 

314 


In  the  North  315 


—  the  settling  of  accounts.  I  used  sometimes  to 
wonder  how  the  patron  saint  of  chaperones,  Ursula 
of  Brittany,  managed  the  accounts  of  the  Eleven 
Thousand  on  that  roundabout  excursion  of  hers  to 
Rome  via  Cologne  and  Basle.  Possibly  her  Vii-gins 
did  it  themselves,  "  taught  by  heavenly  influences," 
as  they  did  the  navigation  on  their  large  and  mys- 
terious fleet.  My  Virgins  were  far  too  feather- 
headed. 

On  the  morning  after  the  arrival  of  these  reinforce- 
ments, while  Fiha  and  I  were  still  hardly  half-awake, 
the  door  was  pushed  softly  open  and  I  perceived 
through  half-closed  eyelids  a  line  of  four  virginal 
figures  proceeding  towards  Filia's  bed,  their  bare 
footfalls  making  no  sound  on  the  stone  floor. 
I  gave  no  sign  of  being  awake,  and  paid  no 
attention  to  the  fluttering  dove-cote  in  the  far 
corner  until  Barbara  called,  affectionately: 

"  Please  wake  up,  dear  Ursula,  and  put  your  halo 
on.  You  left  it,  don't  you  remember,  on  a  bench  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed  au  Carpaccio;  your  dear  little 
saintly  blue  slippers  are  at  the  side." 

"  Buon  giorno,  care  fanciulle,"  I  replied,  calmly. 
"  What  seems  to  be  doing?  " 

Instantly  the  whole  pretty  brood,  gold  and  brown 
and  auburn  headed,  flew  up  from  their  perch  and 
alighted  upon  my  bed,  cooing  delightfully. 

"  We  want  to  give  the  day  to-day  to  going  out  to 


316  The  Spell  of  Italy 

the  Certosa  di  Pavia,  and  it  takes  an  early  start  to 
do  it  comfortably  in  this  warm  weather,"  Fiha  an- 
nounced.   "  We  are  holding  a  plebiscite." 

"  Now,  Ursula,  are  you  quite  up  to  it?  "  asked 
Margherita,  with  a  look  of  deepest  concern. 

"  The  question  is,  ought  we  to  drag  St.  Ursula  out 
through  '  stretches  of  rice-fields  which  offer  httle  of 
interest,'  in  the  heat?  "  Thus  Barbara,  who  held 
her  Baedeker's  "  Northern  Italy  "  open  upon  one 
round,  nainsook-covered  knee. 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  question,"  came  in  serious 
unison  from  the  five. 

"  If  you  will  go  to  your  own  rooms,"  I  said,  drily, 
inwardly  amused  at  their  great  airs  of  concern,  "  I 
will  dress  and  decide  on  the  Certosa  while  dressing. 
You  girls  would  better  go  anyway.  I  shall  do  very 
well  alone,  and  some  of  the  party  must  certainly 
represent  us  at  Pavia." 

"  It  is  '  perhaps  the  most  masterly  creation  of  its 
kind  of  the  Fifteenth  Century,'  "  Barbara  Hngered 
to  say  coaxingly  from  the  door. 

"Out  with  you  and  your  guide-book!"  called 
Filia,  as  she  rang  for  coffee  and  closed  the  door  with- 
out ceremony  upon  the  little  flock. 

The  morning  promised  a  hot  day,  and  I  had  not 
yet  recovered  from  the  fatigues  of  that  concentrated 
sightseeing  in  Verona.  The  consequence  was  that 
the  Virgins  visited  the   Certosa  without  me,  bring- 


In  the  North  317 


ing  back  enthusiasm  galore  over  its  glories,  but  tired 
to  tatters  by  the  laborious  expedition.  Meanwhile 
I  had  a  lucid  and  lovely  day  quite  by  myself,  divided 
between  the  Cathedral  and  the  Brera. 

To  me  Milan  is  not  a  city  to  hurry  by  because  of 
its  chance  masque  of  modernity.  Great  part  and 
memorable  it  has  played  through  all  Italy's  story, 
old  and  new,  being  capital  of  the  Western  Empire,  in 
effect  if  not  in  name,  in  Constantine's  time,  and  in 
our  own  first  to  rise  and  throw  off  the  yoke  of  Austria. 
The  art  treasures  of  Milan  cannot  rival  those  of 
Florence  in  measure,  but  they  are  nobly  conspicuous 
in  degree.  As  for  the  Duomo,  it  is  to  me  the  only 
satisfying  church  in  Italy  save  the  Low^r  Church 
at  Assisi.  All  the  rest  fade  to  nothing  beside  it.  I 
have  spent  some  time  in  an  exercise  of  thanksgiving 
that  I  arrived  in  Milan  before  I  was  too  Gothic- 
learned  to  love  it.  When  people  are  very  wise  I  see 
plainly  they  talk  of  spurious  Gothic  and  smile  in- 
dulgently at  one's  childish,  untutored  enthusiasm. 
Give  me  Tennyson! 

"  O  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires, 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires, 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the  glory  I 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires  ! 


•  I  climb'd  the  roof  at  break  of  day, 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay ; 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 


318  The  Spell  of  Italy 

In  all  Italy  I  do  not  know  so  thoroughly  delectable 
and  refreshing  a  place  in  which  to  see  pictures  as  the 
Poldi-Pezzoli.  It  retains  a  charming  patrician 
distinction  in  its  interior  appointments,  and  the 
lovely  Botticelli's  Madonna  and  Francesca's  portrait 
of  the  never-to-be-forgotten  "  Incognita  "  draw  one 
back  again  and  again.  We  visited  the  place  on  our 
second  day  in  Milan,  and  I  enjoyed  the  raptures  of 
the  youngsters  over  the  mediaeval  bridal  chests,  the 
antique  goldsmiths'  work,  the  tapestries  and  reli- 
quaries. Even  more  impressive  than  these  things 
were  the  carved  chimney-pieces,  doors  and  window- 
frames  of  the  beautiful  old  Palazzo  itself. 

The  Brera  gave  us  a  notable  discovery,  the  frescoes 
of  Luini.  Certain  of  his  easel  pictures,  seen  before, 
had  exercised  a  compelUng  charm,  but  here  we  came 
suddenly  and  for  the  first  time  upon  his  frescoes, 
above  all  that  of  the  Burial  of  St.  Catherine,  and  they 
revealed  his  peculiar  excellence.  His  angels  are 
supremely  beautiful,  and  through  all  his  work  is  es- 
sential poetry  and  purity.  The  Virgin,  seen  later 
in  his  painting  of  the  Holy  Family  after  Leonardo 
in  the  Biblioteca  Ambrosiana,  is  most  feminine,  most 
truly  Lconardesque  in  its  angeHc  archness  and  tender 
subtlety. 

Later,  in  the  Chiesa  del  Monastero  Maggiore,  we 
found  frescoes  by  Luini  even  more  notable  than 
those  in  the  Brera.    He  gradually  became  to  me  the 


In  the  North  319 


representative  of  Leonardo,  who  is  so  difficult  to 
find  and  grasp  save  in  sketches,  suggestions,  and 
vanishing  glimpses  of  mysterious  power  and  loveli- 
ness. Whether  Luini  was  or  was  not  Leonardo's 
pupil,  he  painted  according  to  his  types  and  concep- 
tions, and  caught  his  peculiar  half-wistful,  half- 
mocking  charm  in  a  conspicuous  degree.  In  the 
end  I  concluded  to  take  my  Leonardo  by  way  of  the 
more  accessible  Luini,  —  an  advantage  accruing  to 
the  non-critical  mind! 

I  found  in  truth  something  fairly  exasperating  in 
searching  out  Leonardo  himself,  whether  it  was  in 
the  Last  Supper,  receding  ever  from  one's  visual 
grasp,  or  in  the  delicious  portrait  of  Beatrice  d'Este, 
that  most  engaging  of  Renaissance  Itahan  women's 
portraits.  With  great  enthusiasm  we  sought  her 
out,  —  the  darling  thing,  precious  in  her  own  story 
and  doubly  precious  as  Leonardo's  work !  Here  stood 
guard  the  critic  with  the  two-edged  sword!  The 
portrait  was  not  that  of  Beatrice  d'Este  and  it  was 
not  the  work  of  Leonardo!  Ecco!  I  fall  back  on 
Luini,  as  said  before. 

And  now  we  were  northward  bound  and  lake  ward. 
Despite  a  growing  eagerness  for  Como  and  the  long- 
dreamed  of  charm  of  its  shores,  despite  the  heat, 
despite  the  indifference  of  my  company,  I  insisted  on 
breaking  the  brief  journey  from  Milan  to  Como  at 
Monza. 


320  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  Is  it  that  Ursula  wishes  to  see  the  spot  where 
Umberto  Primo  fell  at  the  hand  of  the  assassin?  " 
asked  little  shy  Lucia,  meekly  and  quaintly,  as  this 
point  was  somewhat  firmly  pressed  en  route. 

"  No,  my  child,"  I  replied;  "  it  is  in  re  the  making 
of  kings,  not  their  taking-ofT,  that  I  must  see  Monza. 
In  the  Cathedral  treasury  of  Monza  is  the  Iron 
Crown  of  Lombardy.  Think,  girls,  the  crown  used 
in  the  coronation  of  Charlemagne  on  Christmas  Day 
in  the  year  800;  for  Charles  V  also,  and  the  other 
foreign  conquerors  down  to  Napoleon." 

This  statement  made  an  impression  plainly,  and 
Filia  wished  at  once  to  know  whether  the  House  of 
Savoy  crowned  itself  with  the  Iron  Crown.  On  this 
point  I  was  not  sure,  but  later,  at  the  Cathedral,  we 
learned  that  the  present  king  had  ordered  the  crown 
sent  to  Rome  when  he  took  his  oath,  and  that  when 
he  made  his  noble  and  thrilling  pledge  of  himself 
and  his  house  to  Italy,  the  Iron  Crown  of  Lombardy 
encircled  his  head. 

With  intense  interest  we  studied  this  renowned 
symbol  of  kingship :  a  broad,  jewelled  circlet  of  gold, 
lined  witliin  by  a  fillet  of  iron.  The  crown  is  not 
famed  for  its  gold  or  its  jewels,  these  signifying  but 
material,  thus  artificial  value,  but  by  that  thin  band 
of  iron,  beUeved  to  be  a  nail  beaten  out,  a  nail  of  the 
True  Cross.  This  nail  was,  traditionally,  brought 
by  the  Empress  Helena  from  Jerusalem  to  Rome, 


THE    VIRGIN,    DETAIL    FROM    THE    HOLY    FAMILY,    BY    LUINI, 
BIBLIOTECA    AMBROSIANA. 


In  the  North  321 


so  coming  by  the  hands  of  Pope  Gregory  to  the  Lom- 
bard Queen  Theodolinda,  because  that  many  through 
her  attained  faith.  Mighty  and  mysterious  alchemy! 
A  nail  of  iron  from  the  scaffold  of  a  Galilean  peasant, 
put  to  ignominious  death  in  an  obscure  province  of 
Imperial  Rome,  becomes  the  sacrosanct  emblem  of 
earthly  power,  of  all  regalia  of  Europe  the  most 
precious  thing! 

Something  of  exultation  mounted  within  me  that 
this  crown,  so  long  the  spoil  of  conquerors  and  alien 
kings,  had  at  last,  in  our  own  late  little  day,  been 
claimed  by  a  native  king  for  his  own  Italy. 

That  Cathedral  treasury  of  Monza  carried  us 
captive  with  its  strange  antique  relics,  especially 
those  small  personal  belongings  of  Theodolinda,  the 
beloved  queen  who  in  590  founded  the  Church.  We 
took  it  very  ill  of  San  Carlo  Borromeo,  Archbishop 
of  Milan,  and  as  despotic  an  old  prelate  as  ever  was 
canonized,  that  he  tm-ned  out  the  poor  lady's  coffin 
from  its  original  resting-place  near  the  high  altar 
and  caused  it  to  be  buried  at  the  west  end  of  the 
Cathedral.  Wherefore?  On  the  ground  that  she 
was  no  saint.  Carlo  was  quahfied  to  judge,  being 
sainted  liimself,  and  acquitting  himself  zealously  in 
the  burning  of  heretics,  —  Waldenses  and  such, 
whose  heads  he  sent  in  triumph  to  Rome.  We  can 
read  letters  from  him  written  when  he  was  Cardinal 
Secretary  of  State,  complaining  of  the  scarcity  of 


322  The  Spell  of  Italy 

executions.  Beyond  doubt  the  gentle  Theodolinda 
did  belong  in  a  different  category! 

It  was  sunset  when  we  reached  Lake  Como,  and 
found  ourselves  slipping  quietly  along  a  narrow, 
river-like  channel  out  into  wider  waters  and  ever- 
growing majesty  of  enframing  mountains.  With  a 
little  quickening  at  the  heart  we  saw  snow-peaks 
rising  beyond  a  range  of  violet  hills.  Yes,  there  were 
the  Alps!  All  was  here  of  which  we  had  heard.  We 
saw  castles  and  gray  old  towers  emerging  from  gloomy 
forests  and  groves  of  olive;  saw  at  the  shore  such 
wealth  of  laurel,  wistaria,  and  palm,  such  thickets 
of  bamboo,  such  arcades  of  oleander,  such  orange 
and  lemon  groves  as  even  Sorrento  had  not  shown 
us;  saw  white  villas  borne  aloft  on  their  velvety 
terraces,  shining  in  the  sun. 

We  sighed  for  the  loveliness,  the  almost  too  perfect 
loveliness;  yet  I  think  in  my  own  heart  the  nameless 
pang  of  realization  was  stronger  than  I  ever  knew 
it,  —  the  pain  in  the  discovery  that  Como,  so  long 
a  dream,  was  after  all  a  thing  of  earth  and  water, 
rock  and  tree;  a  region  where  men  built  their  habi- 
tations and  their  landing-stages,  sailed  their  ugly 
excursion  boats,  and  put  up  signs  of  their  dull  hostel- 
ries.  I  am  sure  I  had  secretly  expected  to  be  con- 
veyed by  a  species  of  phantom  barque  (quite  cer- 
tainly spelled  with  the  q  u  el)  akin  to  that  unsca- 
worthy  craft  in  the  old  engravings  of  "  The  Voyage 


BEATRICE    d'eSTE,    LEONARDO,    (?)    BIBLIOTECA   AMBROSIANA. 


In  the  North  323 


of  Life,"  with  a  white-robed  angel  blowing  on  ahead 
and  lights  which  certainly  never  were  on  sea  or 
land  gleaming  on  the  starboard  bow.  It  was  not 
until  I  had  lived  several  weeks  on  Lake  Como  that 
I  won  back  again  my  old  sense  of  it  as  a  region  of 
celestial  enchantment.  Which  goes  to  show  that  one 
can  hear  too  much  of  a  place. 

After  several  weeks  in  residence,  I  am  prepared  to 
say  that,  according  to  my  best  belief,  there  is  noth- 
ing on  earth  more  beautiful  than  Lake  Como  with 
its  shores.  Our  abiding  place  was  Tremezzo,  as  Mr, 
McCrackan  says  in  his  "  ItaHan  Lakes "  (a  most 
valuable  guide,  by  the  way,  to  the  whole  Lake 
Region),  *'  little  more  than  a  sunny  archway  with 
villas  attached."  He  goes  on  to  describe  the  strange, 
indescribable  little  place  as  follows: 

"  Take  a  handful  of  houses  made  of  stone  and 
mortar,  tint  them  with  the  usual  colour-scheme  of  an 
Italian  lake  front,  then  dispose  them  in  a  line  along 
and  over  the  water,  build  out  some  little  harbour 
jetties  here  and  there,  scoop  out  a  few  convenient 
hollows  under  the  houses  where  little  boats  may  he, 
throw  in  bowers  with  trees  trained  to  give  shade, 
splash  the  house  walls  and  parapets  with  wistaria 
vines,  and  fill  up  all  the  unoccupied  space  with  myrtle, 
rhododendron  and  camellia  bushes  —  and  you  have 
Tremezzo  seen  from  the  water.  .  .  .  Bore  a  passage 
through  the  first  floor  of  all  the  houses,  cut  open- 


324  The  Spell  of  Italy 

ings  in  the  outside  walls,  and  the  result  is  a  beautiful 
prolonged  archway  giving  shelter  from  sun  and 
rain  and  open  on  the  water  side." 

Tremezzo  runs  along  its  cheerful  way  after  this 
fashion  for  a  little  distance,  then  produces  a  noble 
avenue  of  sycamores,  in  the  deep  green  shade  of 
which  the  wall  of  the  Villa  Carlotta  forms  a  back- 
ground. Then  it  stops  for  a  bit  to  allow  a  suitable 
grand-ducal  entrance  for  the  Saxe-Meiningens,  who 
do  not  come,  and  for  the  untitled  forestieri  who  do, 
very  keen  for  the  Canovas  and  Thorwaldsens,  which 
seem,  however,  so  unnecessary  and  even  futile  here. 
The  grand-ducal  business  done  with,  we  suddenly 
discover  that  Tremezzo  has  become  Cadenabbia, 
and  when  it  happened  nobody  knows.  What  is  the 
difference  between  the  two,  and  why  should  we  so 
emphatically  prefer  Tremezzo  ?  There  is  sun,  un- 
mitigated sun,  at  conventional  Cadenabbia,  and  there 
is  cloistered  shade  at  homely  Tremezzo;  also  there 
is  a  general  air  of  smartness,  of  Enghsh  patronage, 
and  "  favourite  resort  "  at  Cadenabbia.  At  Tremezzo 
Italians  themselves  make  bold  to  sojourn,  Tedeschi 
as  well,  uninteresting  often,  to  be  sure,  but  they  have 
the  merit  of  being  altogether  detached  and  desultory, 
have  not  been  coordinated  into  a  High  Church 
colony,  purring  over  curates  and  organizing  garden- 
parties. 

I  should  always  go  to  Tremezzo,  were  it  only  to 


In  the  North  325 


be  cooked  for  by  the  never-to-be-forgotten  chef 
of  the  unpretending  Bazzoni ;  to  have  my  coffee  and 
rolls  each  morning  on  the  terrace  under  the  rose- 
wreathed  pergola;  to  have  my  chamber  hang  quite 
over  the  lake's  small  blue  waves,  confronting  Monte 
Grigna  and  those  other  glorious  and  gloomy  crests, 
above  Bellaggio;  to  have  always  just  below  my  win- 
dow a  few  great  late  pink  roses  flung  across  the  blue 
of  sky  and  lake;  to  escape  dust  and  noise,  prunes 
and  prism,  fasliion  and  convention.  While  the  girls 
frivolled,  climbed  mountains,  rowed  boats  and  made 
overwarm  excursions  to  Bellaggio  and  Como,  or 
diligently  did  their  duty  by  Pliny  the  Elder  and  Pliny 
the  Younger,  I  devoted  myself  to  a  modest  bit  of 
literary  study  for  wliich  I  had  been  longing  on  all 
my  wandering  way.  For  everywhere  I  had  been 
haunted  by  sense  of  the  great  men  who  in  previous 
centuries  or  generations  had  visited  Italy  and  had 
been  mastered  by  its  spell;  desire  awoke  in  me  to 
know  just  where  they  had  tarried  and  just  when, 
that  so  I  could  say  to  myself,  "  Here  Milton  stood 
on  such  a  day,  or  here  Shelley." 

Leisure  at  last  being  mine  and  access  to  some 
books,  (but  more,  later,  in  Bagni  di  Lucca),  I  here 
began  the  pleasant  task  of  tracing  with  some  care 
the  movements  of  certain  famous  forestieri  in 
Italy. 

For  the  benefit  of  those  who  may  take  like  pleasure 


326  The  Spell  of  Italy 

with  me,  I  will  give  the  chapter  following  to  these 
notes. 

The  first  week  of  August  found  the  air  of  Tremezzo 
torrid  and  stagnant,  and  we  made  a  sudden  break, 
crossed  the  mountains  to  Lugano,  and  dashed  up 
into  Alpine  regions,  to  the  cool  recesses  of  the  Valle 
Leventina.  Faido,  full  of  waterfalls  and  clustering 
chestnut-trees,  was  the  httle  hamlet  at  which  we 
decided  to  pitch  our  tent.  We  fancied  that  we  had 
discovered  it,  and  for  a  day  felt  access  of  self-con- 
fidence in  our  penetration.  Presently  it  appeared 
that  Faido  was  an  old  haunt  of  John  Ruskin  and 
other  people  of  consequence.  For  this  we  loved  the 
place  more,  however,  not  less,  with  its  keenly  out- 
Uned  mountains,  its  ceaseless  sound  of  the  Ticino's 
plunging  water,  its  ancient  chalets,  its  green  meadows 
embroidered  BotticelH-wise  with  delicate  wild  flowers 
and  run  through  by  small,  brimming  brooks. 

From  Faido,  when  Italy  called  us  irresistibly,  we 
came  back  through  the  glorious  Ticino  Valley  by 
Bellinzona  to  Locarno,  at  the  Swiss  end  of  Lake 
Maggiore.  We  approached  this  lake  with  some 
secret  prepossession  against  its  rival  claims  with 
Como,  to  which  we  were  now  ardently  devoted.  At 
first  we  held  hard  to  our  conviction  that  Como  was 
far  more  beautiful;  but  as  we  sailed  southward  by 
Intra  and  Pallanza,  and  the  snow-clad  mountains 
rose  into  view  above   the  Borromean   Islands,  we 


In  the  North  327 


were  forced  to  admit  Maggiore's  surpassing  grandeur 
and  majesty  of  scenery,  while  we  shall  always  insist 
upon  the  unparalleled  beauty  of  detail  of  the  Larian 
shores. 

And  now,  despite  all  my  loyalty  to  Tremezzo  and 
Como,  I  must  confess  that  having  lost  my  heart 
there,  I  was  fain  to  lose  it  again  on  Maggiore,  the 
point  which  appeared  most  advantageous  for  this 
process  being  Stresa.  Upon  what  the  Pensione 
booklet  styles  "  a  smiUng  slope  "  above  the  little 
town  stands  the  Pensione  Villa  Beau-Sejour.  "  Here," 
so  says  this  neat  and  veracious  document,  "  the 
visitor  falls  into  ecstasy;  the  pure,  fresh  air  of  the 
hill  is  inhaled  in  copious  draughts,  the  wearied  soul  is 
relieved,  and  the  attractions  of  a  position  so  charming 
awaken  thought  to  meditation.  .  .  .  Moreover,  the 
climate  has  already  (!)  been  recommended  by  very 
eminent  physicians  to  several  persons.  .  .  .  The 
walks  are  ravishing,  the  road  above  the  Beau-Sejour 
unfolds  like  an  elegant  ribbon  with  graceful  sinuosi- 
ties," etc.  Truly  there  would  seem  Uttle  left  to 
demand  or  desire. 

And  there  was  little.  As  we  stayed  on  we  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  gifted  author  of  the 
booklet  had  understated,  especially  as  Filia  declared 
that  in  her  case,  beyond  a  doubt,  thought  had  been 
awakened  to  meditation.  We  all  observed  that  she 
was  incUned  to  prolonged  study  of  Dante  and  to 


328  The  Spell  of  Italy 

long  reveries  in  a  dim  arbour  of  close-growing  bam- 
boo which  she  most  frequented;  but  the  other  Vir- 
gins insisted  on  connecting  these  reveries  less  with 
the  "  attractions "  than  with  certain  letters  of 
Signor  Aztalos  which  they  declared  Filia  carried 
in  her  chatelaine  bag  habitually. 

The  Beau-Sejour  was  full  of  Genoese  and  Milanese 
people,  among  whom  we  made  delightful  acquaint- 
ance, thus  satisfying  our  wish  to  know  Italian  personal 
characteristics  in  some  small  measure. 

It  had  not  been  difficult  to  discover  in  these  months 
of  our  sojourn  that  Italy  is  poor,  that  her  common 
people  are  wofully  illiterate  and  superstitious,  that 
the  government  does  well  to  promote  emigration 
to  reheve  the  exhausted  land,  sad  though  it  was  in 
Southern  Italy  to  witness  the  absolute  desertion  of 
many  large,  well-built  villages.  However,  though 
uneducated  and  superstitious,  the  Italian  peasants 
are  perhaps  the  most  industrious  in  the  world,  a 
gay,  light-hearted  folk  in  the  South,  and  here  in  the 
North,  especially  in  Tuscany,  serious,  honest,  and 
religious  to  a  degree.  No  more  touching  records 
of  a  simple  God-fearing  people  could  be  found  than 
those  of  Francesca  Alexander  in  her  lovely  little 
book,  "  Christ's  Folk  in  the  Apennine."  I  often 
wish  that  Americans  who  rail  against  the  Italian 
peasants  would  read  this  too  little  known  volume. 

In  Stresa  we  met  many  representatives  of  what 


In  the  North  329 


I  suppose  might  be  called  the  upper  middle  class, 
prosperous  merchants,  lawyers,  manufacturers,  from 
the  great  modernized,  commercial  cities  of  Turin, 
Genoa,  and  Milan.  Frankly  we  found  the  women 
less  interesting  than  the  men,  for  the  reason  that 
they  have,  as  a  rule,  very  hmited  education  and 
very  narrow  outlook.  A  young  ItaUan  gentleman 
whose  acquaintance  we  made  told  Diana,  who  is  a 
typical  American  college  girl,  that  he  had  never  in 
his  life  met  a  girl  of  her  type;  that  she  was  a  com- 
plete revelation  of  a  hitherto  unknown  species.  He 
said  to  her,  "  Signorina,  if  I  should  attempt  to  talk 
with  any  Itahan  girl  I  know  of  such  things  as  we 
have  been  discussing  (these  were  themes  political, 
social,  and  literary),  she  would  look  at  me  in  horror 
and  suppose  me  to  be  losing  my  mind."  When 
asked  of  what  he  would  converse  with  an  Italian 
girl,  he  replied,  "  The  opera,  the  weather,  the  love- 
affairs  of  our  acquaintance,  and  her  own  good 
looks." 

Meanwhile,  the  men  are  educated,  and  they  possess 
the  charm  of  extraordinary,  chivalrous  courtesy. 
Their  tenderness  to  little  children  exceeds  even  that 
of  German  men,  and  I  have  never  seen  such  devoted 
fathers.  Fatherhood,  indeed,  is  quite  as  much  a 
passion  as  motherhood  in  Italy.  The  intimate  rela- 
tion of  the  father  to  his  children  lasts  all  the  way 
through,  controls  in  adult  life,  and  is  really,  if  one 


330  The  Spell  of  Italy 

may  not  say  a  paternal  form  of  government,  a  gov- 
ernmental form  of  paternity.  The  contrast  between 
the  absorbed  Italian  and  the  casual  American  father, 
with  his  attenuated  relation  to  family  affairs,  struck 
us  sharply. 

Perhaps  the  cleverest  man  whom  we  met  in  Italy, 
and  certainly  the  most  beautiful  woman,  were  among 
our  fellow  pensioners  at  the  Beau-Sejour.  Down  in 
Stresa,  hard  by  the  Hotel  des  lies  Borromees,  is  the 
ducal,  semi-royal  Villa  of  the  Duchess  of  Genoa, 
mother  of  Queen  Margherita.  One  of  the  Duchess's 
physicians,  just  then   in   personal   attendance,  was 

Dottor  Giuseppe  S ,  descendant  of  the  Visconti,  a 

patrician  through  and  through.  In  his  profession 
he  has  attained  conspicuous  success,  and  we  found 
him  a  learned,  courtly,  and  accomplished  gentleman, 
grave,  like  most  Italians  of  his  class.  The  Latin 
men  do  not  laugh  much  and  the  Latin  women  never 
giggle.  They  say  that  one  can  always  detect  the 
American  girl  by  her  habit  of  laughing  every  time 
she  speaks. 

Two  years  ago  Doctor  S was  betrothed  to  a 

lady  of  rank,  who  was  as  indifferent  to  him  apparently 
as  he  to  her.  The  proposed  marriage  was  simply 
one  of  convenance.  At  a  salon  one  evening  he  met 
the  Signorina  PoHdori.  They  fell  instantly  and 
desperately  in  love.  The  relation  to  the  fiancee  was 
broken  without  bloodshed,  and  in  six  months  the 


In  the  North  331 


Doctor  and  the  lovely  Polidori  were  married.  That 
was  a  few  months  before  we  met  them. 

When  the  Duchess  of  Genoa  is  at  Villa  Stresa 
Doctor  S has  to  be  in  daily  attendance.  Ac- 
cordingly he  brought  his  bride  to  the  Beau-Sejour 
and  gave  us  a  chance  to  look  at  her,  for  which  the 
Virgins  were  enthusiastically  grateful,  daily  and 
hourly.  She  gave  me  the  sensation  which  I  receive 
from  a  great  creamy,  velvety,  curly-petalled,  in- 
toxicatingly  fragrant  rose.  Ah,  but  she  was  beauti- 
ful, with  such  eyelashes,  such  gold-red  lights  in  her 
brown  hair,  such  rose  and  snow  of  skin,  such  dimples 
wherever  dimples  can  be,  such  magnificent  opulence 
of  line  and  curve,  such  powerful,  perfect  white 
hands!  And  then  she  knows  how  to  dress  to  distrac- 
tion, also  how  to  smile  and  to  pout  and  to  enchant. 
Doctor  S looked  a  Httle  undersized  and  under- 
coloured  beside  his  bride,  and  yet  he  had  ever  one 
certain  elusive  charm  which  she  lacked,  —  that  of 
race. 

They  were  still  quite  in  the  honeymoon,  deeply 
in  love,  deeply  romantic !  The  Duchess  used  to  send 
a  lackey  up  to  the  Beau-Sejour  every  day  with  pres- 
ents of  wine  and  fruit  for  her  physician.  One  eve- 
ning, when  dinner  was  nearly  over,  Margherita  was 
pressed  to  go  to  their  small  table,  to  take  dessert 
and  taste  the  fiery,  red-brown  Marsala  from  the 
Duchess's  cellar.     Having  all  a  girl's  keen  admira- 


332  The  Spell  of  Italy 

tion  for  the  Signora's  beauty,  Margherita  sat  down 
in  no  small  delight,  and  all  went  merrily.  The  talk 
was  of  how  she  must  visit  them  and  meet  a  good 
parti  and  become  ItaHanated.  But  presently  she 
and  Doctor  "  Beppi  "  (the  Signora's,  and  the  usual, 
diminutive  for  Giuseppe)  fell  into  a  discussion  of 
certain  pecuHarities  in  Italian  literary  construction. 
In  this  the  Signora  was  not  interested.  There- 
fore she  was  annoyed.  Suddenly,  without  note 
of  warning,  she  rose  and  left  the  table  and  the  room. 
Margherita  found  herself  now  tete-a-tete  alone  with 
the  Doctor,  a  quite  inadmissible  situation  in  Italy, 
from  which  nothing  but  most  awkward  abruptness 
could  release  her. 

Adjourning  to  the  library,  they  discovered  the 
Signora  sitting  in  frigid,  wordless  dignity,  alone, 
daggers-drawn,  confronting  a  rich  Milanese  mer- 
chant's wife  to  whom  she  never  spoke  because  she 
considered  the  woman's  husband  vulgar.  Not  a 
word  of  apology  or  explanation  was  ever  given.  She 
is  simply  a  child  of  nature;  her  emotions  are  ele- 
mental, very  forcible,  wholly  undisguised. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Doctor  S he  had  come 

up  from  Strcsa  to  the  pensione  on  foot,  and,  the 
day  being  warm,  he  sat  down  on  a  rustic  bench 
in  the  garden  to  rest.  No  one  was  near,  but  I  could 
see  his  face  from  the  table  in  an  arbour  where  I  sat 
writing.    It  was  as  if  a  mask  had  been  dropped  from 


In  the  North  333 


it.  All  the  lustre,  the  gladness  which  usually  ani- 
mated its  fine  gravity  were  gone.  He  looked  care- 
worn, strained,  troubled;  and  the  sensitive  lines  of 
his  face  revealed  a  something  I  had  not  dreamed  of 
before. 

Suddenly  from  the  balcony  above  the  garden  a 
voice  called,  "Beppi!"  The  Signora  stood  there, 
radiant  in  her  beauty. 

Instantly  the  Doctor  straightened  himself;  light 
leaped  into  his  eyes,  a  responsive  smile  to  his  lips. 
Then  he  turned  his  face  like  Rudel  to  his  Lady  of  the 
East  —  in  worship? 


XVII 

AUTHORS   IN   ITALY 

PON  certain  temperaments  the  influence  of 
Italy  is  dynamic.  With  many  of  the 
greater  poets  the  first  contact  with  art 
and  nature  on  "  the  fair  side  of  the 
Alps "  has  marked  an  epoch  in  the  spiritual  and 
esthetic  development.  What  has  been  true  of 
the  great  is  true  in  proper  degree  of  the  small, 
which  fact  gives  interest  and  significance  to  the 
brief  and  scanty  sketches  which  follow. 

Chaucer  is  in  effect  our  first  English  poet.  The 
really  great  event  of  his  life  was  his  first  visit  to 
Italy  in  1372.  Tradition  says  that  he  then  met 
Petrarch  at  Padua.  Heretofore  under  French  in- 
fluence in  his  writing,  his  models  thenceforward  were 
Dante,  Boccaccio,  and  Petrarch.  His  themes  and  his 
treatment  of  them  became  largely  those  of  the  great 
ItaHans,  and  he  introduced  certain  Itahan  stories 
and  plots  into  English  literature  which  became  the 
stock  in  trade  of  his  successors. 

It  is  not  proved  that  Shakespeare  visited  Italy, 
334 


Authors  in  Italy  335 

but  there  is  much  upon  which  to  base  such  a  behef. 
At  least  twelve  of  his  plays  have  the  scene  laid  in 
Italy,  and  the  locaHzed  description,  if  not  infallibly 
accurate,  shows  a  confidence  which  would  seem 
phenomenal  if  the  writer  had  not  made  his  own 
observations.  Three  plays  concern  Rome,  —  "  Corio- 
lanus,"  "  Juhus  Caesar,"  and  "  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra; "  two  Venice, —  '' Othello  "  and  the  "Mer- 
chant of  Venice;  "  two  Verona,  —  "  Two  Gentlemen 
of  Verona "  and  "  Romeo  and  Juliet."  Mantua, 
Sicily,  Padua,  and  Tuscany  are  somewhat  less 
strongly  worked  in.  Supposing  Shakespeare  to  have 
visited  Italy,  it  is  believed  that  he  did  not  go  south 
of  Verona  and  Venice  and  that  his  journey  took 
place  in  1592-1593. 

Ten  years  earUer,  1581,  is  the  date  of  Montaigne's 
famous  journey  to  Italy.  It  was  undertaken  primarily 
on  account  of  his  health,  and  his  goal  was  Bagni  di 
Lucca,  where  he  purposed  seeking  alleviation  in  the 
boiling  hot  springs,  for  his  sufferings  from  serious 
disease.  Starting  from  Paris,  he  went  by  Basel  to 
Munich,  then  through  the  Tyrol  to  Verona  and  Padua. 
He  visited  nearly  all  the  important  cities  of  Central 
Italy,  and  spent  five  months  in  Rome.  Here  he  was, 
to  his  own  apparently  keen  surprise,  flatteringly 
received  by  the  Pope,  who  chose  to  bHnk  at  the 
irreligious  and  scoffing  character  of  his  writing. 
Reaching  Bagni  di  Lucca  at  last,  he  appears  to  have 


336  The  Spell  of  Italy 

remained  nearly  five  months,  taking  baths,  counting 
his  pulse,  and  watching  his  pathological  phenomena 
with  rather  disgusting  diligence.  Thence  he  was 
recalled  by  his  election  as  Mayor  of  Bordeaux. 

Milton's  year  in  Italy  can  doubtless  be  considered 
the  happiest  experience  of  his  long  and,  in  the  whole, 
sad-coloured  life.  It  bore  comparatively  little  im- 
mediate fruit  in  the  shape  of  direct  allusion  or 
description,  but  all  his  later  poetry  betrays  the  pro- 
found enrichment  which  his  genius  there  received. 
Of  Milton  at  Vallambrosa  Mrs.  Browning  said: 

"  O  waterfalls 
And  forests !    sound  and  silence  !  .  .  . 

...  we  must  think 
Your  beauty  and  your  glory  helped  to  fill 

The  cup  of  Milton's  soul  so  to  the  brink, 
He  nevermore  was  thirsty  when  God's  will 

Had  shattered  to  his  sense  the  last  chain-link 
By  which  he  had  drawn  from  Nature's  visible 

The  fresh  well-water.     Satisfied  by  this, 
He  sang  of  Adam's  paradise  and  smiled, 

Remembering  Vallambrosa.     Therefore  is 
The  place  divine  to  English  man  and  child, 

And  pilgrims  leave  their  souls  here  in  a  kiss." 

Milton  was  at  the  prime  and  height  of  his  first 
poetic  period  when  ho  went  to  Italy  in  1638. 
"L' Allegro"  and  "II  Penseroso,"  "  Comus  "  and 
"  Lycidas,"  had  boon  written.  The  stormy  period 
of  revolution   had   not  yet   driven   him   into  that 


Authors  in  Italy  337 

Twenty  Years'  War  of  Pamphlets  in  which  his  poetic 
genius  buried  itself;  while  the  majestic  power  and 
passion  of  "  Paradise  Lost  "  and  the  Samson  were 
hardly  prefigured.  He  was  thirty  years  old,  beautiful 
as  an  angel  and  possessed  of  literary  distinction, 
shot  through,  even  then,  with  rays  of  a  rising  and 
imperishable  fame.  His  charming  old  father  un- 
hesitatingly supplied  him  with  a  man-servant  and 
with  the  financial  basis  for  the  expedition;  the 
secretary  of  war  gave  him  a  passport,  and  Sir 
Henry  Wotton,  Provost  of  Eton,  provided  him 
with  letters  of  introduction  to  men  in  high  place. 

It  is  interesting  to  read  from  Wotton's  letter  to 
Milton  dated,  "  From  the  College,  this  13th  of  April, 
1638,"  the  following: 

"  Since  your  gomg,  you  have  charged  me  with  new 
obligations,  both  for  a  very  kind  letter  and  for  a 
dainty  piece  of  entertainment  [a  copy  of  Lawes's 
edition  of  Comus]  which  came  therewith,  wherein  I 
should  much  commend  the  tragical  part  if  the  lyrical 
did  not  ravish  me  with  a  certain  Doric  dehcacy  in 
your  song  and  odes;  whereunto  I  must  plainly  con- 
fess to  have  seen  yet  nothing  parallel  in  our  language. 
.  .  .  Now,  sir,  concerning  your  travels,  wherein  I 
may  challenge  a  Httle  more  privilege  of  discourse 
with  you  ...  I  should  think  that  your  best  line 
will  be  through  the  whole  length  of  France  to  Mar- 
seilles, and  thence  by  sea  to  Genoa,  whence  the  passage 


338  The  Spell  of  Italy 

into  Tuscany  is  as  diurnal  as  a  Gravesend  barge.  I 
hasten  to  Florence  or  Siena,"  etc. 

Milton  did  not  strictly  follow  the  advice  of  Sir 
Henry,  but  entered  Italy  by  Nice,  thence  by  coasting 
packet  to  Genoa,  and  presently  to  Leghorn.  His 
first  inland  journey  was  to  Pisa,  where  he  seems  to 
have  tarried  for  few  days,  hastening  on  with  eagerness 
to  Florence,  the  object  of  his  most  vivid  interest. 
Here  he  remained  during  August  and  September. 
No  Itahan  city  in  that  day  could  exceed  Florence 
in  learned  and  literary  society.  It  was  rich  in  "  acad- 
emies," those  hterary  fraternities  so  characteristic 
of  that  period,  and  through  these  Milton  gained 
instant  access  to  the  leading  spirits  of  Florence. 
A  number  of  influential  noblemen  vied  with  each 
other  in  showing  the  Enghsh  poet  honours  and 
hospitalities.  Whatever  of  Latin  verses  he  con- 
trived to  "  patch  up  among  them  "  were  received 
as  if  they  had  been  divine  oracles,  and  poems  of 
superlative  eulogy  were  addressed  to  him  among 
the  young  academicians. 

But  the  mighty  conjunction  of  two  stars  of  the 
first  magnitude  which  occurred  when  the  radiant 
young  English  Milton  visited  the  blind  old  Galileo 
in  his  villa  on  the  height  of  Bellosguardo  remains 
the  great  event  of  the  Florentine  visit.  "  There  it 
was  that  I  found  and  visited  the  famous  Galileo," 
said  Milton,  "  grown  old,  a  prisoner  to  the  Inquisition, 


Authors  in  Italy  339 

for  thinking  in  Astronomy  otherwise  than  the  Fran- 
ciscan and  Dominican  hcensers  thought." 

Leaving  Florence  for  Siena  in  September,  Milton 
went  on  to  Rome.  Here  he  seems  again  to  have 
carried  everything  before  him  in  hterary  circles, 
judging  by  such  poetic  tributes  as  the  following: 

''  To  John  Milton,  Englishman,  deserving  to  be 
crowned  with  the  triple  laurel  of  poesy. 

"  Greece  may  exult  in  her  Homer,  Rome  may  exult  in  her 
Maro, 
England  exults  in  one  equalling  either  of  these." 

This  elegiac  couplet  and  others  are  the  composition 
of  an  otherwise  unknown  Selvaggi. 

After  two  months  in  Rome,  Milton  proceeded  by 
carriage  to  Naples.  Here  the  great  influence  was 
that  of  Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa,  now  in  his  seventy- 
eighth  year,  patron  and  friend  of  Tasso,  who,  dying 
in  1595,  retained  liis  love  and  gratitude  to  the  noble 
Neapohtan  to  his  last  breath.  It  was  Manso  who 
caused  the  inscription,  "  Torquati  Tassi  Ossa,"  to  be 
inscribed  above  Tasso's  grave  in  St.  Onofrio  in  Rome. 

Manso,  who  appears  to  have  been  a  guardian  angel 
of  poets,  now  took  Milton  under  his  powerful  wing. 

"  By  a  certain  Eremite  with  whom  I  had  made 
the  journey  from  Rome,"  says  Milton  himself,  "  I 
was  introduced  to  Joannes  Baptista  Mansus,  Mar- 
quis of  Villa,  a  most  noble  and  important  man  (to 


340  The  Spell  of  Italy 

whom  Torquatus  Tasso,  the  famous  Itahan  poet, 
addressed  his  Discourse  on  Friendship),  and,  as  long 
as  I  stayed  there,  I  experienced  him  truly  most 
friendly  to  me;  he  himself  leading  me  round  through 
the  different  parts  of  the  city,  and  the  palace  of  the 
Viceroy,  and  coming  himself,  not  once  only,  to  my 
inn  to  visit  me." 

Fifty  years  before  the  Marquis  had  led  Tasso  around 
Naples,  pointing  out  its  beauties.  Masson  fancies 
the  aged  patrician  quoting  to  his  new  charge  the 
raptures  and  reflections  of  that  earlier  storm-tossed, 
tumultuous  but  ever-engaging  poet. 

Late  in  December  tidings  reaches  Milton  of  the 
beginning  of  Civil  War  in  England,  and  he  thinks 
it  "  disgraceful  that,  while  my  fellow  countrymen 
were  fighting  at  home  for  liberty,  I  should  be  travel- 
ling abroad  at  ease  for  intellectual  purposes."  Accord- 
ingly he  abandons  his  plan  for  \dsiting  Sicily  and 
Greece,  and  turns  again  northward.  Manso,  in 
parting,  presents  him  with  two  cups  of  rich  work- 
manship and  with  the  inevitable  poetic  tribute 
which,  however,  has  a  thrust  aside  at  the  English- 
man's Protestant  proclivities: 

"  Joannes  Baptista  Mansus,  Marquis  of  Villa,  to  John  Milton, 
Englishman. 

"  Mind,  form,  grace,  face  and  morals  are  perfect ;  if  but  thy 
creed  were, 
Then  not  Anglic  alone,  truly  Angelic  thou'dst  be." 


Authors  in  Italy  341 

Again  Milton  spends  two  months  in  Rome,  and 
early  in  March,  1639,  he  arrives  in  Florence  for  the 
second  time.  Vallambrosa  and  Fiesole  become  his 
favourite  haunts,  and  excursion  is  made  also  to  Lucca. 
Bologna  and  Ferrara  are  visited  on  his  way  to  Venice, 
which  he  reaches  late  in  April.  While  in  Venice 
he  shipped  to  England  a  quantity  of  "  curious  and 
rare "  books,  collected  during  his  travels,  among 
them  "  a  chest  or  two  of  choice  music-books  of 
the  best  masters  flourishing  about  that  time  in 
Italy." 

Verona  and  Milan  are  the  last  points  visited 
on  the  homeward  way,  and  by  Lake  Leman  he  goes 
on  to  Geneva. 

A  truly  Miltonic  touch  of  that  fastidious  pride 
of  purity  which  breaks  such  a  chasm  between 
Milton  and  Goethe,  is  given  in  the  sentence 
with  which  the  story  of  the  Italian  journey  is 
closed: 

"  I  again  take  God  to  witness  that  in  all  those 
places  where  so  many  things  are  considered  lawful, 
I  lived  sound  and  untouched  from  all  profligacy  and 
vice,  having  this  thought  perpetually  with  me,  that, 
though  I  might  escape  the  eyes  of  men,  I  certainly 
could  not  the  eyes  of  God." 

Goethe's  attitude  towards  the  promptings  of  flesh 
and  sense  experienced  in  Italy  are  sufficiently  in- 
dicated in  his  first  Roman  Elegy: 


342  The  Spell  of  Italy 

"  Eine  Welt  zwar  bist  Du,  o  Rom  !  doch  ohne  Liebe 
Ware  die  Welt  nicht  die  Welt,  ware  denn  Rom  auch  nicht 
Rom." 

The  Italian  journey  was  to  Goethe  'par  excellence 
the  epoch-making  event  of  hfe.  In  1786  he  left 
Weimar  for  Italy,  a  gifted  provincial  official;  he 
returned  in  1788  grown  a  world-poet.  Over  no 
spirit  has  Italy  cast  a  more  potent  spell.  It  had 
long  been  the  land  of  deepest  desire  to  him.  He 
had  studied  Itahan,  dreamed  of  Italy  night  and  day, 
and  records  that  "  circumstances  impel  me  and 
compel  me  to  wander  and  lose  myself  in  regions 
of  the  earth  where  I  am  yet  unknown."  His  pur- 
pose was  kept  a  profound  secret. 

On  September  11th,  having  crossed  the  Alps  by  the 
Brenner,  Goethe  first  hears,  in  Roveredo,  Italian 
spoken  on  Italian  soil.  He  travels  incognito,  assum- 
ing the  common  name,  Miiller.  He  was  at  this  time 
working  on  the  Iphigenia  motif.  His  first  stopping- 
place  was  on  Lake  Garda,  at  an  inn  in  Torbole. 

A  tablet  on  the  house  believed  to  have  been  this 
inn  now  bears  this  inscription: 

"7n  questa  casa  dimoro  Goethe  il  12  Settemhre  1786. 
Hente  hah  ich  an  der  Iphigenie  gearheitet,  es  ist  im 
Angesicht  des  Sees  gut  von  statten  gegangen." 

Verona,  Viccnza,  and  Padua  Goethe  ran  through 

*  For  Goethe's  sojourn  on  Lake  Garda  see  McCrackan's 
"Italian  Lakes." 


Authors  in  Italy  343 

with  about  a  week  for  each;  so  to  Venice  where  he 
lingered  for  three  weeks.  We  note  that  he  was 
forced  to  lay  the  Iphigenia  aside  in  Venice,  and  do 
straight  sightseeing  like  other  forestieri.  His  rapture 
in  reaUzing  his  hfelong  dream  of  seeing  Italy  now 
becomes  supreme.  In  his  journal  for  October  12th 
in  Venice  he  writes:  "I  may  confess  at  once  my 
disease  and  my  folly.  For  many  a  long  year  I  could 
not  bear  to  look  at  a  Latin  author,  or  to  cast  my  eye 
upon  anything  that  might  serve  to  awaken  in  my 
mind  the  thoughts  of  Italy.  If  by  accident  I  did 
so  I  suffered  the  most  horrible  tortures  of  mind.  .  .  . 
Had  I  not  made  the  resolve  which  I  am  now  carry- 
ing into  effect,  I  should  have  been  for  ever  lost  — 
to  such  a  degree  of  intensity  had  the  desire  grown 
to  see  these  objects  with  my  own  eyes.  Historical 
acquaintance  vnih  them  did  me  no  good;  the  things 
stood  only  a  hand's  breadth  away  from  me,  but  still 
they  were  separated  from  me  by  an  impenetrable 
wall." 

He  reaches  Ferrara,  full  of  suggestions  of  Tasso 
(already  his  drama  of  Tasso  is  begun);  is  unhappy 
here  and  drives  on  to  Cento,  where  he  enjoys  the 
Guercino's,  then  to  Bologna,  and  can  only  bring  him- 
self to  stop  three  hours  in  Florence,  his  demon  urging 
him  on  to  Rome.  He  reaches  Perugia  October  25th; 
leaves  it  on  a  "  glorious  morning,"  and  says  the  site 
of  the  city  is  beautiful  and  the  scenes  on  the  way  to 


344  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Assisi  are  deeply  impressed  on  liis  memory.  The 
only  thing  which  interests  him  in  Assisi  is  the  small 
Temple  of  Minerva.  But  then,  why  not?  Goethe  was 
always  essentially  Greek  and  Pagan.  On  towards 
Rome  he  hastens,  finding  bad  inns  and  bad  vetturini, 
but  declaring,  "  Were  it  on  the  wheel  of  Ixion  that 
they  dragged  me  to  Rome  I  would  not  complain." 

Rome  is  reached  October  29,  1786,  and  entered 
by  the  Porta  del  Popolo.  Goethe  meets  his  friend 
Tischbein,  the  painter,  and  shares  his  lodging  on  the 
Corso,  at  the  corner  of  the  Vicolo  della  Fontanella. 
A  tablet  marks  the  house.  Goethe  is  assigned  two 
rooms  on  the  second  piano.  His  sitting-room  com- 
mands a  prospect  over  the  Pincian  Hill.  Now  at 
last  he  writes  back  to  liis  friends  in  Karlsbad,  in 
Weimar  and  Frankfurt  that  he  is  in  Italy.  He  gives 
himself  to  the  completion  of  the  Iphigenia  and,  for 
the  rest,  to  Rome. 

In  spite  of  his  incognito  Goethe  was  discovered 
and  drawn  into  the  circle  of  men  of  letters  and 
artists,  who  lionized  him  to  the  point  even  of 
proposing  to  crown  him  with  laurel  at  the  Capitol. 
This  he  wisely  averted,  and  three  months  of 
strenuous  study  and  social  activity  brought  him 
to  a  state  of  deadly  weariness.  He  decided  to  go  to 
Naples,  "  to  wash  his  soul  clean  from  the  Idea  of 
so  many  dreary  ruins  and  to  assuage  the  too  severe 
conceptions  of  Art." 


Authors  in  Italy  345 

Goethe  was  at  this  time  tliirty-seven  years  of  age. 
Like  Milton,  Byron,  and  Shelley,  he  possessed  ex- 
traordinary personal  beauty.  During  the  winter, 
before  he  breaks  away  for  Naples,  he  writes  in 
his  diary  that  he  often  catches  Tischbein  regarding 
him  attentively,  and  in  the  end  discovers  that  he 
wishes  to  paint  him,  hfe-size,  enveloped  in  a  white 
mantle,  seated  on  a  fallen  obehsk,  viewing  the  Cam- 
pagna.  Goethe  remarks  naively  that  it  will  form  "  a 
beautiful  piece!"  The  heavy  allegorical  strain,  so 
dear  to  the  Teutonic  heart,  is  all  to  the  fore,  for  the 
obehsk  is  to  be  Egyptian,  the  various  fragments  of 
sculpture  scattered  about  respectively  Greek  and 
Roman,  while  Goethe's  "  glance  "  around  him  is  to 
suggest  the  thought  of  the  perishable  nature  of  all 
earthly  splendour!  The  result  is  quite  what  might 
be  expected. 

On  February  22,  1787,  Goethe  started  in  a  carriage 
from  Rome  to  drive  to  Naples,  which  he  reached  four 
days  later.  "  I  pardoned  all  who  lose  their  senses 
in  Naples,"  is  his  consohng  declaration.  He  visited 
Pozzuoli,  Vesuvius,  Pompeii,  Ischia,  Paestum,  Sor- 
rento, and,  on  March  29,  set  sail  in  a  corvette  for 
Palermo,  which  was  reached  April  2.  Monte  Pel- 
legrino  he  calls  "  the  most  beautiful  headland  in  the 
whole  world,"  Again,  "  Italy  without  Sicily  leaves 
no  image  on  the  soul:  here  is  the  key  to  all." 

The    Greek    temples    excited    Goethe's    livehest 


346  The  Spell  of  Italy- 

interest,  and  on  the  18th  of  April  he  started  on  a 
tour  beginning  with  Segeste  and  Girgenti  and  in- 
cluding Catania  and  Taormina.  From  Messina  he 
set  sail  for  Naples  May  14,  in  a  French  merchantman. 
On  the  return  to  Naples,  Goethe  revisited  Paestum 
and  says:  "  It  is  the  last,  and  I  might  almost  say 
noblest  Idea  which  I  now  can  bear  northwards  in 
its  perfectness.  And,  in  my  opinion,  the  central 
temple  is  superior  to  anything  at  present  to  be  seen 
in  Sicily." 

On  June  6,  1787,  Goethe  again  found  himself  in 
Rome.  With  clarified  vision  and  spirit  refreshed, 
he  rejoiced  in  days  spent  at  Albano,  Castel-Gon- 
dolfo,  and  Frascati.  He  had  formed  an  ardent 
friendship  with  Angelica  Kauffman,  and  speaks  of 
his  associations  as  "  a  circle  of  enchantment." 
"  Egmont "  occupied  several  months,  but  mean- 
while the  plans  for  "  Tasso  "  and  "  Faust  "  were 
taking  shape.  In  the  Borghese  Gardens  he  wrote 
the  Hexenkuche  scene  for  Faust,  suggestions  for 
which  may  have  come  to  him  from  the  Roman 
Carnival. 

But  the  Duke  of  Weimar  was  urging  his  return, 
and  the  end  drew  on.  Throughout  the  last  fortnight 
in  Rome,  Goethe  confessed  later,  he  cried  like  a 
child.  On  April  22,  1788,  in  sorrowful  agitation  he 
started  back  to  Germany.  His  interest  in  minerals 
awaking,  he  told  a  friend  that  he  was  going  to  buy  a 


Authors  in  Italy  347 

hammer  and  break  pieces  from  the  rock  on  his 
homeward  journey  in  order  to  drive  away  "  the 
bitterness  of  death." 

He  appears  to  have  made  a  brief  stay  in  Florence 
and  again  in  Milan.  Here,  being  in  mood  sharp  set 
and  the  Cathedral  being  Gotliic  and  Christian,  not 
Greek  and  Pagan,  he  falls  upon  its  marbles  with 
savage  fury.  And  so  the  Alps  were  crossed  and  he 
was  again  on  the  "  wrong  side  "  of  them,  never  to 
return. 

Says  the  translator  of  Goethe's  "  Italienische 
Reise:"  "The  instruction  of  Italy,  the  correcting, 
supplementing,  completing,  perfecting  effect  of  Italy 
on  Goethe's  whole  nature,  the  transfusion  of  Italian 
art  into  Goethe's  thought  and  temperament  —  that 
is  perhaps  the  main  and  most  attractive  argument 
of  the  book.  It  is  in  Rome  that  Goethe  first  fully 
finds  himself,  ralHes  together  all  his  scattered 
powers,  attunes  them  to  harmony  and  unity,  dis- 
sipates the  false  illusions  which  had  so  long  beset 
him,  and  becomes  wholly  sensible  of  liis  true  voca- 
tion." 

We  come  now  to  that  trio  of  England's  young 
Immortals,  who  belong  in  reahty  less  to  England 
than  to  Italy,  and  who  met  death  in  swift,  sad  suc- 
cession in  Italy  and  Greece  in  the  years  1821  and 
1822. 

At  the  foot  of  that  mountain,  San  Giuliano,  "  for 


348  The  Spell  of  Italy 

which,"  as  Dante  tells  us,  "  the  Pisans  cannot  Lucca 
see/'  —  the  phrase  paraphrased  by  Shelley  to  — 

"  that  hill,  whose  intervening  brow 
Screens  Lucca  from  the  Pisan's  envious  eye,  —  " 

Shelley  was  abiding  when  word  reached  him  from 
Rome  that  John  Keats  was  dead. 

In  the  September  of  1820,  having  months  before 
received  his  death-warrant  of  consumption  sealed 
with  the  blood  of  an  arterial  hemorrhage,  Keats  had 
set  sail  for  Naples,  accompanied  by  his  friend,  Mr. 
Joseph  Severn,  the  artist.  Their  stay  in  Naples 
was  short.  Proceeding  to  Rome,  a  lodging 
was  taken  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  opposite  the 
house  of  Sir  James  Clarke,  the  physician  to  whom 
Keats  had  a  letter  of  introduction.  Severn  and  Clark 
were  untiring  in  their  generous  devotion,  but  nothing 
could  stop  the  progress  of  the  disease.  The  young 
life-loving  poet  —  he  was  but  twenty-six  —  fully 
realized  that  death  approached;  once  he  said,  "I 
feel  the  daisies  growing  over  me,"  and  again  gave 
that  bitter  inscription  for  his  grave:  "  Here  lies  one 
whose  fame  was  writ  in  water." 

On  February  24,  1821,  the  end  came.  An  inscrip- 
tion on  the  house  at  the  foot  of  the  Scala  di  Spagna 
(Number  26)  marks  it  with  melancholy  interest  as 
the  scene  of  Keats's  departure  from  this  mortal  life. 

Hardly  adequate  has  been  the  recognition  of  Mr. 


Authors  in  Italy  349 

Severn's  generous  sacrifice  of  his  own  interests  in  liis 
attendance  on  the  dying  poet.  He  was  a  man  of 
singularly  noble  endowment.  Says  Shelley:  "He 
(Keats)  was  accompanied  to  Rome  by  Mr.  Severn, 
a  young  artist  of  the  highest  promise,  who,  I  have 
been  informed,  almost  risked  his  own  life  and  sac- 
rificed every  prospect  to  unwearied  attendance  upon 
his  friend.  .  .  .  Mr.  Severn  can  dispense  with  a 
reward  from  '  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of.'  " 

Twenty  years  after,  John  Ruskin,  newly  arrived, 
a  lad  of  twenty-one,  on  his  first  visit  to  Rome,  toiled 
up  a  long  flight  of  stairs  to  present  himself  to  this 
friend  of  John  Keats.  Of  him  he  gives  this  captivat- 
ing description: 

"  There  is  nothing  in  any  circle  that  ever  I  saw 
or  heard  of  Uke  what  Mr.  Joseph  Severn  then  was 
in  Rome.  He  understood  everybody,  native  and 
foreign,  civil  and  ecclesiastic,  in  what  was  nicest 
in  them,  and  never  saw  anything  else  than  the 
nicest;  or  saw  what  other  people  got  angry  about 
as  only  a  humourous  part  of  the  nature  of  things. 
It  was  the  nature  of  things  that  the  Pope  should 
be  at  St.  Peter's  and  the  beggars  on  the  Pincian 
Steps.  He  forgave  the  Pope  his  papacy,  reverenced 
the  beggar's  beard,  and  felt  that  alike  the  Steps  of 
the  Pincian  and  the  AracoeH,  the  Lateran,  and  the 
Capitol,  led  to  heaven,  and  everybody  was  going 
up,  somehow;    but  might  be  happy  where  they  were 


350  The  Spell  of  Italy 

meantime.  Lightly  sagacious,  lovingly  humourous, 
daintily  sentimental,  he  was  in  council  with  the 
cardinals  to-day,  and  at  picnic  in  Campagna  with 
the  brightest  English  belles  to-morrow." 

One  would  echo  Shelley's  prayer  that  the  "  unex- 
tinguished spirit  "  of  Keats  should  "  plead  against 
oblivion  "  for  a  memory  so  fragrant. 

Keats's  death  wrought  Shelley's  genius  to  its 
highest  pitch  of  inspiration.  In  his  dwelling  in 
Pisa,  the  large  yellow  plaster  house  on  the  Lung' 
Arno  Galileo,  he  threw  himself  with  passion  into  the 
"  Adonais."  With  astounding  modesty  or  self- 
restraint  he  calls  it,  "  the  least  imperfect  of  my 
compositions!"  The  house  still  stands,  and  bears  a 
tablet  with  this  inscription: 

"  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  trascorse  in  questi  muragli 
ultimi  mesi  del  1821,  Vinverno  del  1822,  qui  tradurse 
in  versi  immortal  gli  effetti  e  le  imagini  che  Pisa 
gli  inspiro,  e  compose  Vulegia  in  morte  di  John  Keats, 
'  Adonais.^  " 

Pisa  had  become  "  a  little  nest  of  singing  birds," 
for  Byron  was  domiciled  on  the  other  side  the  Arno, 
not  far  from  the  Ponte  di  Mezzo.  His  house,  known 
then  as  the  Palazzo  Lanfranchi  (now  Palazzo  Tor- 
canelli),  is  a  simple  massive  structure  of  brown  stone. 
The  inscription  reads:  ^'Giorgio  Gordon  Noel  Byron 
qui  dimoro  dalV  autunno  del  1821  alV  estate  del  1822 
e  scrisse  sei  canti  del  Don  Giovanni." 


Authors  in  Italy  351 

To  go  back.  In  March,  1818,  Shelley,  with  wife  and 
cliildren,  had  left  England  for  Italy,  in  which  the 
brief  remainder  of  his  life  was  destined  to  be  passed. 
The  poet  was  then  twenty-six  years  old;  "Queen 
Mab,"  "  Alastor,"  and  "  The  Revolt  of  Islam  "  had 
been  written.  Harriet  Shelley  was  dead;  Maiy 
Godwin  was  now  his  lawfully  wedded  wife. 

The  four  years  of  Shelley's  life  in  Italy  produced 
the  substance  of  his  greatest  poetry.  All  that  pre- 
ceded these  years  could  be  spared,  for  the  "  Prome- 
theus," the  "  Cenci,"  the  "  Adonais,"  the  "  Epipsy- 
chidion,"  and  a  score  of  deathless  lyrics  are  ItaHan 
born. 

Upon  first  reaching  Italy,  the  Shelleys  halted  at 
Milan.  The  English  poet  found  the  exterior  of  the 
Cathedral  "  beyond  anything  I  had  imagined  archi- 
tecture capable  of  producing."  (Compare  with 
Goethe's:  "I  was  at  the  Cathedral,  to  erect  which 
a  whole  mountain  of  marble  has  been  forced  into 
the  most  tasteless  forms.") 

Failing  in  an  attempt  to  secure  a  house  at  Como, 
the  Shelleys  kept  on  southward,  and  in  a  Passage  of 
the  Apennines  that  lovely  fragment  was  written 
beginning : 

"  Listen,  listen,  Mary  mine, 
To  the  whisper  of  the  Apennine." 

They  came  then  to  Pisa,  which  Shelley  describes 
as  "  a  large,  disagreeable  city,  almost  without  in- 


352  The  Spell  of  Italy 

habitants."  Afterwards  he  found  that  the  peace  of 
the  place  suited  him.  "  Our  roots  never  struck  so 
deep  at  Pisa,"  he  wrote  later.  On  June  5th  Shelley 
writes  from  Leghorn:  "We  proceeded  to  this  great 
trading-town,  where  we  have  remained  a  month, 
and  which,  in  a  few  days,  we  leave  for  the  Bagni  di 
Lucca,  a  kind  of  watering-place  situated  in  the 
depth  of  the  Apennines." 

In  August  Shelley  is  in  Florence,  which  he  calls 
the  most  beautiful  city  he  has  seen.  October  finds 
him  at  Este,  among  the  Euganean  Hills  to  the  west 
of  Padua,  ''  not  so  beautiful,"  he  writes,  ''  as  those 
of  the  Bagni  di  Lucca."  From  Venice  he  goes  to 
Rome,  stopping  at  Rimini,  Spoleto,  and  Terni. 
Spoleto  he  declares  the  most  romantic  city  he  ever  saw. 
He  spends  but  a  week  in  Rome  at  this  time,  but  says 
the  impression  exceeds  anything  thus  far  experienced. 
*'  It  is  a  scene  by  which  expression  is  overpowered, 
which  words  cannot  convey."  From  Naples  he  writes 
eloquently  of  the  marvel  and  charm  of  all  the  sur- 
roundings, of  Baise,  Posilipo,  and  Puzzuoli,  then  of 
Salerno  and  Psestum. 

In  March,  1819,  the  Shelleys  came  by  slow  stages 
"  with  our  own  horses  "  to  Rome.  Gacta  and  Ter- 
racina  awaken  vivid  delight,  and  at  Albano  they  are 
thrilled  by  the  sight  of  Rome  itself.  During  the 
prolonged  stay  in  Rome  which  follows,  Shelley  writes : 
"  Health,  competence,  tranquilUty,  —  aU  these  Italy 


Authors  in  Italy  353 

permits  and  England  takes  away."  "  Prometheus 
Unbound  "  was  written  in  Rome,  and  there  a  son, 
WiUiam,  died  June  7th  of  this  year.  July  found  the 
family  back  in  Tuscany,  in  a  little  country  house 
near  Leghorn,  where  "  The  Cenci  "  was  mainly  com- 
posed, though  long  before  conceived.  ''  The  Ode 
to  the  West  Wind  "  was  written  in  a  wood  that  skirts 
the  Arno  near  Florence,  on  a  day  of  tempestuous 
wind.  Early  in  the  year  1820  the  Shelleys  were 
estabhshed  in  Pisa,  where  "  The  Skylark  "  and  "  The 
Cloud  "  were  written;  here  they  took  root  and  kept 
it  for  still  another  year,  1821,  during  the  summer  of 
which  Shelley  visited  Byron  in  Ravenna.  Late  in 
April,  1822,  the  Shelleys  left  Pisa  for  Casa  Magni,  a 
lonely  house  on  the  Bay  of  Lerici,  off  the  Gulf  of 
Spezia.  Byron  was  in  Pisa  and  Leigh  Hunt  with  his 
family  had  just  come  from  England  to  join  with 
him  and  Shelley  in  the  projected  publication  of  a 
literary  journal  at  Pisa.  Shelley  and  his  friend 
Williams  sailed  from  Lerici  to  Leghorn,  in  their  own 
small  sailboat,  the  Ariel,  to  meet  the  Hunts.  Having 
estabhshed  them  in  Pisa  under  Byron's  care,  the  two, 
with  a  lad,  started  June  8,  1822,  on  their  return  to 
Lerici  and  Casa  Magni.  Trelawny,  who  was  of 
their  company,  remained  for  some  reason  in  Leghorn. 
Atmospheric  conditions  were  ominous  at  the 
start,  and  Trelawny,  from  a  tow^er,  watched  the 
Ariel  with  a  ship's  glass  until  it  disappeared  in  a  sea 


354  The  Spell  of  Italy 

fog.  Then  the  furious  temporale,  which  might  have 
been  foreseen,  struck,  and  the  whole  scene  was 
blotted  out  from  the  watcher's  vision.  In  twenty- 
minutes  the  horizon  cleared,  but  in  vain  Trelawny 
scanned  the  gulf  for  sight  of  the  Ariel.  Ten  days 
later,  near  Viareggio,  the  three  bodies  were  washed 
ashore.  Shelley's  was  identified  by  a  volume  of 
Keats,  just  given  him  by  Hunt,  the  book  thrust  into 
his  pocket  doubled  back  at  the  "  Eve  of  St.  Agnes." 
Shelley's  ashes  were  conveyed  to  the  Protestant 
Cemetery  in  Rome,  and  were  laid  near  those  of  his 
little  son  who  died  in  Rome  and  those  of  Keats, 
buried  there  little  more  than  a  year  before. 

I 
"  Shelley  and  Keats,  on  earth  unknown 
One  to  the  other,  now  are  gone 
Where  only  such  pure  Spirits  meet 
And  sing  before  them  words  as  sweet. 

II 

«  Thou  hast  not  lost  all  glory,  Rome  ! 
With  thee  have  found  their  quiet  home 
Two  whom  we  followers  most  admire 
Of  those  that  swell  our  sacred  quire  ; 
And  many  a  lower'd  voice  repeats 
Hush  !    Here  lies  Shelley !  here  lies  Keats  I  " 

Thus  Walter  Savage  Landor,  who,  strangely  enough, 
never  saw  Shelley. 

As  the  western  coast  of  Tuscany,  the  Riviera  di 


Authors  in  Italy  355 

Levante,  must  be  for  ever  consecrated  to  memories 
of  Shelley,  so  the  eastern  shores  of  Venetia  and  the 
Emilia  are  associated  with  Byron's  years  in  Italy. 
But  those  years,  so  stained  with  wild  and  reckless 
debauchery,  offer  little  upon  which  the  memory  cares 
to  dwell.  In  brief,  Byron  in  the  year  1816,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-eight,  first  saw  Italy,  coming  from 
Switzerland  to  Venice  by  Milan  and  Verona.  A 
prolonged  residence  in  Venice  was  interrupted  by  a 
journey  to  Rome,  where  he  remained  for  but  a  month. 
In  April,  1819,  Byron  became  acquainted  with  the 
Contessa  Guiccioli,  the  young  and  newly  married 
wife  of  an  elderly  Italian  nobleman.  From  June, 
1819,  to  October,  1821,  Byron  hved  in  the  Palace 
of  the  Guicciolis  (now  Hotel  Byron)  in  Ravenna,  on 
terms  of  intimacy  with  the  Contessa  who  was  now 
separated  from  her  husband. 

About  this  time  the  secret  order  of  the  Carbonari 
began  to  spread,  and  the  brother  of  Contessa  Guic- 
cioli associated  himself  with  their  revolutionary 
plots.  As  a  consequence,  in  July,  1821,  the  Guic- 
cioli were  ordered  to  quit  Ravenna.  They  went  to 
Pisa,  where  they  Were  joined  in  October  by  Lord 
Byron,  who  remained  there,  residing  in  the  Palazzo 
Lanfranchi  until  after  the  catastrophe  of  Shelley's 
death. 

Fresh  political  unrest  caused  the  Guiccioli  to 
remove  from  Pisa  to  Genoa.      While  residing  here 


356  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Byron  became  ardently  interested  in  the  cause  of 
the  Greeks,  and  in  July,  1823,  he  sailed  from  Genoa 
to  the  Island  of  Cephalonia.  The  circumstances  of  his 
death  at  Missolonghi  about  a  year  later  are  famiUar. 

Hemy  James,  in  his  wandering  along  the  Gulf  of 
Spezia,  tells  of  finding  at  Porto  Venere,  on  the  south- 
west coast,  the  memorial  tablet  to  Lord  Byron  over 
a  gateway.  An  inscription  states  that  the  great 
Byron,  "  swimmer  and  poet,  here  defied  the  waves 
of  the  Ligurian  Sea."  This  fact  Mr.  James  goes  on  to 
remark  is  not  supremely  interesting,  as  Byron  "  was 
always  defying  something,  and  if  a  slab  had  been 
put  up  wherever  this  performance  came  off  these 
commemorative  tablets  would  be  in  many  parts 
of  Europe  as  thick  as  milestones." 

Byron  thought  Shelley  a  capital  fellow  and  pat- 
ronized his  poetic  enterprises;  Shelley  worshipped 
Byron's  genius  and  tried  gallantly  to  tolerate  the 
man.  His  own  gifts  compared  with  Byron's  he  ap- 
peared to  estimate  as  the  light  of  a  candle  beside  that 
of  a  sun,  and  Byron  apparently  thought  his  judg- 
ment not  very  wide  of  the  mark.  Fifty  years  have 
reversed  this  estimate,  and  travellers  in  Italy  make 
pilgrimage  to  Casa  Magni,  on  the  little  Bay  of  Lerici, 
and  gaze  at  the  scarred  and  weatherbeaten  walls, 
the  gray  parapet  and  loggia  of  Shelley's  lonely  villa, 
with  emotions  which  no  memorial  of  Byron  could 
ever  evoke. 


Authors  in  Italy  357 

Before  Shelley  or  Keats  or  Byron  saw  Italy,  Landor 
was  established  at  Como.  Milan,  Pistoia,  and  Pisa 
were  tested  by  him  also  in  his  effort  to  find  a  congenial 
abiding-place.  Curious  coincidence  that  Pisa,  that 
dead,  stranded  Tuscan  town,  should  between  1820 
and  1821  have  been  chosen  by  three  of  the  most 
illustrious  of  modern  EngHshmen.  Landor  met 
neither  Byron  nor  Shelley  in  Pisa,  however,  which  is 
even  stranger  since  he  dwelt  there  from  the  close  of 
1818  to  September,  1821.  Leaving  Pisa  he  went  to 
Florence  and  estabUshed  himself  in  the  Medici 
palace,  where  he  resided  most  of  the  time  until  the 
year  1829,  when  he  bought  a  villa  on  the  way  to 
Fiesole,  since  known  as  Villa  Landor.  "  My  country 
now  is  Italy,"  he  wrote,  "  where  I  have  a  residence 
for  life  and  can  Uterally  sit  under  my  own  vine  and 
fig-tree.  I  have  some  thousands  of  the  one  and  some 
scores  of  the  other,  with  myrtles,  pomegranates, 
lemons,  and  mimosas  in  great  variety." 

The  love  of  Florence  became  a  master-passion  with 
Landor.  Of  his  httle  son  he  said:  "  If  I  can  do 
nothing  more  for  him,  I  will  take  care  that  his  first 
words  and  first  thoughts  shall  arise  witliin  sight  of 
Florence." 

In  his  "  Imaginary  Conversation  "  between  Alfieri 
and  Salomon,  Landor  makes  Alfieri  say: 

"  Look  from  the  window.  That  cottage  on  the 
declivity    was    Dante's.      That    square    and    large 


358  The  Spell  of  Italy 

mansion  .  .  .  was  the  first  scene  of  Boccaccio's  '  De- 
cameron.' ...  A  town  so  little  that  the  voice  of  a 
cabbage-girl  in  the  midst  of  it  may  be  heard  at  the 
extremities,  reared  within  three  centuries  a  greater 
number  of  citizens  illustrious  for  their  genius  than 
all  the  remainder  of  the  Continent  (excepting  her 
sister  Athens)  in  six  thousand  years.  Smile  as  you 
will,  Signor  Conte,  what  must  I  think  of  a  city  where 
Michael  Angelo,  Frate  Bartolommeo,  Ghiberti  (who 
formed  them),  Guicciardini  and  Machiavelh  were 
secondary  men?  And  certainly  such  were  they,  if 
we  compare  them  with  Galileo  and  Boccaccio  and 
Dante." 

In  May,  1833,  Emerson  visited  Landor,  who,  he 
said,  was  one  of  the  five  men  for  the  sake  of  seeing 
whom  he  went  to  Europe.  The  Villa  Landor  became 
a  centre  for  travellers,  and  residents  of  distinction 
in  art  and  letters,  and,  but  for  the  sad  elements  of 
ill-controlled  temper  and  uncongenial  dispositions  in 
himself  and  in  his  household,  Landor  might  have 
been  the  happiest  of  men.  A  cHmax  of  miserable 
dissension  was  reached  in  1835.  The  master  of  the 
house  abandoned  it  to  wife  and  children  and  betook 
himself  for  the  summer  to  Bagni  di  Lucca.  Thence 
he  returned  to  England,  where  he  remained  for 
twenty  years  of  exile  in  his  native  land,  banished 
from  the  home  he  had  chosen. 

In  1858,  stricken  with  suffering  and  solitude,  but 


Authors  in  Italy  359 

still  leonine  and  unsubdued,  Landor  left  England, 
wandered  back  to  Fiesole,  and  returned  to  his  beloved 
villa,  where  wife  and  cliildren  appeared  to  have  well 
enjoyed  the  period  of  his  Ulysses-hke  absence. 
Scant  welcome  awaited  him.  Says  Mr.  Sidney  Col- 
\dn:  "  Pathetic,  almost  tragic,  was  the  portion  of 
the  old  man  in  those  days,  a  Lear  who  found  no 
kindness  from  his  own.  Thrice  he  left  the  villa  with 
the  determination  to  live  by  himself  in  Florence; 
but  his  wish  was  not  indulged,  and  thrice  he  was 
brought  back  to  the  home  which  was  no  home  for 
him,  and  where  he  was  dealt  with  neither  generously 
nor  gently."  [When  he  first  left  Fiesole  he  had 
turned  over  the  property  there  to  his  eldest  son, 
and  made  over  two-thirds  of  his  income  to  Mrs. 
Landor,  reserving  for  liimself  but  two  hundred 
pounds  a  year.]  "  The  fourth  time  he  presented 
himself  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Bro\\Tiing,  with  only  a 
few  pauls  in  liis  pocket,  declaring  that  nothing  should 
ever  induce  him  to  return." 

The  summer  of  1859  was  spent  with  the  Brownings 
in  Siena.  In  the  autumn  of  1859  Mr.  Browning, 
whose  generous  devotion  to  the  eccentric  and  un- 
fortunate old  man  was  inexhaustible,  made  suitable 
arrangements  for  liis  residence  in  an  apartment 
close  to  the  Casa  Guidi. 

Miss  Kate  Field,  who  was  a  member  of  that  charmed 
Florentine  circle  in  the  late  fifties,  wrote:    "I  have 


360  The  Spell  of  Italy 

never  seen  anything  of  its  kind  so  chivalric  as  the 
deference  paid  by  Robert  Browning  to  Walter  Savage 
Landor.  It  was  loyal  homage  rendered  by  a  poet, 
in  all  the  glow  of  power  and  impulsive  magnetism, 
to  an  '  old  master.'  " 

Mrs.  Browning's  death  in  1861  and  her  husband's 
consequent  departure  from  Florence  left  Landor 
bitterly  bereft  and  lonely;  his  correspondence  with 
Browning  remained  his  chief  solace.  He  retained, 
however,  to  the  end  something  of  his  native  ardour. 
Garibaldi  was  the  hero  of  his  old  age,  and  he  fol- 
lowed with  passionate  interest  the  struggle  for  the 
liberation  of  Italy.  On  a  drive  towards  the  end 
he  asked  to  pass  his  beloved  Villa  Landor.  "  At 
first  sight  of  it  he  gave  a  sudden  start  and  tears  filled 
his  eyes  and  coursed  down  his  cheeks.  '  There's 
where  I  lived,'  he  said,  breaking  a  long  silence  and 
pointing  to  his  old  estate.  '  Let  us  give  the  horses 
a  rest  here ! '  We  stopped,  and  for  several  minutes 
Landor's  gaze  was  fixed  upon  the  villa.  '  There, 
now  we  can  return  to  Florence  if  you  Hke,'  he  mur- 
mured, finally,  with  a  deep  sigh.  *  I  have  seen  it 
probably  for  the  last  time.'  "  ^ 

Landor  died  on  the  17th  of  September,  1864,  and 
was  buried  in  the  English  cemetery  of  Florence,  just 
outside   the  old  walls,  where  three  years  before  the 

'Incident  related  by  Miss  Kate  Field,  quoted  in  "The 
Florence  of  Landor,"  by  Lilian  Whiting. 


Authors  in  Italy  361 

dust  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  had  been  laid. 
The  flat  stone  on  his  grave  bears,  beside  his  name, 
only  the  dates  of  birth  and  death,  1775-1864. 

The  Villa  Landor  still  remains  an  object  of  interest 
to  the  traveller  on  its  picturesque  hillside  below 
Fiesole,  approached  by  an  avenue  of  sombre  cypress- 
trees. 

Robert  Browning  first  visited  Italy  in  1838,  at  the 
same  age  with  John  Keats  on  his  pilgrimage  (last  as 
well  as  first),  and  twelve  years  later.  But  where  death 
worked  in  Keats,  life  was  working  in  Browning,  life 
in  the  highest,  vivid,  and  vigorous.  From  the  first 
the  magic  of  Italy  mastered  his  imagination,  and 
with  fervent  sincerity  he  could  say  in  the  years 
which  followed: 

"  Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  '  Italy.' 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she ; 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be  !  " 

Of  this  first  journey  Browning  later  wrote:  "  'What 
I  did?  '  I  went  to  Tiieste  (on  a  merchant  vessel 
from  London),  then  Venice  —  then  through  Treviso 
and  Bassano  to  the  mountains,  delicious  Asolo,  all 
my  places  and  castles,  you  will  see.  Then  to  Vicenza, 
Padua,  and  Venice  again.    Then  to  Verona,"  etc. 

"  Pippa  Passes,"  written  in  1841,  gives  with 
abounding  vitality  and  loveliness  the  impression 
made  upon  the  poet's  mind  and  sense  by  "  delicious 


362  The  Spell  of  Italy 

Asolo."  Its  attraction  was  destined  in  the  end  to 
draw  him  back  from  Shelley's  Tuscany,  the  too  well 
beloved,  and  so  intolerable,  to  Venetia  and  Lord 
Byron's  haunts. 

On  a  second  visit  to  Italy,  in  1844,  Browning  is 
supposed  to  have  shipped  direct  to  Naples,  which 
enthralled  him  powerfully.  Southern  Italy's  very 
nature  is  distilled  into  his  "  Englishman  in  Italy  — 
Piano  di  Sorrento."  On  the  homeward  journey  he 
stopped  at  Leghorn  to  see  Trelawny,  Shelley's 
friend,  and  the  last  to  see  him  alive  and  to  ask  him  — 

"  Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you  ?  " 

Returning  from  this  second  visit  in  the  autumn 
of  1844,  Browning  met  Miss  Bari'ett.  The  story 
is  too  familiar  to  be  retold  here.  Following  their 
clandestine  marriage  in  1846,  they  started  for  Italy, 
going  to  Genoa  from  Paris,  and  spending  the  winter 
in  Pisa. 

It  was  here  that  Mrs.  Browning  surprised  her 
husband  with  her  sequence  of  "  Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese,"  of  whose  composition  he  had  remained 
ignorant.  The  whole  of  the  married  hfc  of  the 
Brownings  was  spent  in  Italy  with  the  exception  of 
a  few  excursions  to  England  and  Paris.  In  the 
summer  of  1847  it  was  decided  to  settle  in  Florence 
permanently,  after  an  unavailing  attempt  to  prevail 


Authors  in  Italy  363 

upon  the  monks  of  Vallambrosa  to  give  them  ac- 
commodation for  two  months.  Casa  Guidi,  9  Piazza 
San  FeHce,  became  their  home.  Here  in  1849  their 
only  son  was  born,  and  here,  June  29,  1861,  Mrs. 
Browning  died.  Her  death  occurred  soon  after  re- 
turning from  a  sojourn  in  Rome.  Her  last  letter  to 
her  husband's  sister,  under  date  of  June  7,  indicates 
the  truth  of  the  assertion  that  the  death  of  Cavour, 
seeming  to  put  an  end  to  her  passionate  hopes  for 
Italy's  futm'e,  gave  her  her  death-blow. 

"  We  come  home  into  a  cloud  here,"  she  writes. 
"  I  can  scarcely  command  voice  or  hand  to  name 
Gavour.  That  great  soul  which  meditated  and  made 
Italy  has  gone  to  a  diviner  Country.  If  tears  or 
blood  could  have  saved  him  to  us,  he  should  have  had 
mine.  I  feel  yet  as  if  I  could  scarcely  comprehend  the 
greatness  of  the  vacancy.  A  hundred  Garibaldis 
for  such  a  man!  " 

In  July  following  the  death  of  his  wife,  Browning 
left  Florence,  never  to  return. 

Much  of  Mrs,  Browning's  most  important  poetry 
was  produced  during  her  Ufe  in  Florence,  as  "  Casa 
Guidi  Windows  "  (the  story  of  the  Itahan  struggle 
for  Independence  as  seen  through  her  eyes),  "  Aurora 
Leigh  "  (concluded  in  Paris  and  London),  and  the 
sheaf  of  lyrics,  chiefly  relating  to  Italian  pohtics. 
Of  these  the  best  are  "  Mother  and  Poet  "  and  "  A 
Court  Lady."    In  the  latter  we  have  a  sketch  drawn 


364  The  Spell  of  Italy 

with  rapid  master-strokes  of  the  whole  story  of 
Italy's  conflict.  Many  of  these  lyrics  show  that  note 
of  scarcely  suppressed  hysterical  intensity  which 
so  often  robs  Mrs.  Browning's  verse  of  its  best  effect. 
But  her  passion  is  at  its  noblest  when  she  hears  the 
first  rumour  of  the  ignoble  Peace  of  Villa  Franca: 

"  Peace,  you  say !     Yes,  peace  in  truth  ! 
But  such  a  peace  as  the  ear  can  achieve 
'Twixtthe  rifle's  click  and  the  rush  of  the  ball, 
'Twixt  the  tiger's  spring  and  the  crunch  of  the  tooth, 
'Twixt  the  dying  atheist's  negative 
And  God's  face  .  .  .  waiting,  after  all." 

Casa  Guidi  became  in  those  days  centre  of  a  dis- 
tinguished circle  in  which  at  one  time  and  another 
were  numbered  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli,  George 
Sand,  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  the  Storys,  the  Haw- 
thornes,  George  Eliot,  the  Carlyles,  Cardinal  Manning, 
Leighton  and  —  of  course  —  Landor,  as  well  as 
many  others. 

There  were  seasons  in  Rome  and  Venice  and  Siena, 
and  gay  weeks  in  vllleggiatura  in  Bagni  di  Lucca; 
in  all  places  the  highest,  deepest,  and  best  of  spiritual 
and  intellectual  content  being  theirs  by  right  divine. 
But  Florence  hold  the  supreme  place  in  the  affection 
of  these  two,  as  it  did  in  Landor's;  *'  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  cities  devised  by  man,"  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing called  it.  After  her  death  Browning  went  to 
London,  declaring  he  did  not  wish  to  see  Italy  again 


Authors  in  Italy  365 

for  years,  and  set  to  work  upon  "  the  Roman  murder 
story,"  conceived  in  Florence,  "  The  Ring  and  the 
Book."  Seventeen  years  later,  in  the  year  1878, 
Browning,  accompanied  by  his  sister,  began  that 
series  of  journeys  to  Italy,  —  eight  in  all,  —  which 
lasted  until  his  death,  in  1889.    Asolo  was  revisited. 

"  How  many  a  year,  my  Asolo, 

Since  —  one  step  just  from  sea  to  land  — 
I  found  you,  loved  yet  feared  you  so  !  "  — 

So  he  said,  but  this  does  not  describe  the  impression 
Asolo  made  upon  him  in  78,  which  seems  to  have 
been  disappointing.  Later  its  old  charm  for  him 
revived.  In  1889  he  again  makes  pilgrimage  to  the 
ancient  and  romantic  little  town  which  he  had  ap- 
propriated to  himself  in  that  eager  youth  of  his  by 
some  profound  inner  experience. 

"  At  Asolo,"  he  said,  "  my  Asolo,  when  I  was 
young,  all  natural  objects  were  palpably  clothed 
with  fire.  They  mastered  me,  not  I  them.  I  adored 
the  splendour  I  saw." 

How  this  reminds  us  of  Wordsworth's, 

"  I  cannot  paint  what  then  I  was  I  " 

Mr.  Barrett  Browning,  now  married,  was  estabUshed 
in  Venice  in  the  Palazzo  Rezzonico  on  the  Grand 
Canal.  Leaving  Asolo  in  the  end  of  October,  Brown- 
ing came  to  visit  his  son,  full  of  an  eager  project  for 


366  The  Spell  of  Italy 

purchasing  a  piece  of  property  at  Asolo  and  build- 
ing a  dwelling  for  himself  to  be  christened  "  Pippa's 
Tower."  But  this  was  not  to  be.  The  vital  spark 
was  sinking,  in  spite  of  the  unconquerable  will  to 
still  live  and  love  and  enjoy.  The  end  came  in  the 
Browning  Palazzo  in  Venice  December  12,  1889. 

Among  the  wreaths  which  lay  on  Browning's  coffin 
was  one  inscribed,  "  Venezia  a  Robert  Browning." 
The  municipahty  further  affixed  a  memorial  tablet 
to  the  outer  wall  of  the  Palazzo  Rezzonico.  On  it 
are  the  words:  — 

A 

Roberto  Browning 

Morto  in  questo  palazzo 

n  12  Dicembre  1889 

Venezia 

Pose 


Below : 


"  Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it  Italy." 


Two  great  authors  whose  names  are  popularly 
associated  with  Italy  by  reason  of  famous  romances 
of  Rome  and  Florence  appear  to  have  been,  after 
all,  but  superficially  and  for  a  purpose  subject  to  the 
spell  of  Italy.  Both  Hawthorne  and  George  Eliot 
visited  Italy,  travelled,  observed,  enjoyed,  and 
embodied  their  intellectual  gains  in  important  and 
serious  works  of  fiction,  "  The  Marble  Faun  "  and 


Authors  in  Italy  367 

''  Romola."  They  might  be  supposed  then  to  belong 
indisputably  among  the  men  and  women  whom  we 
are  considering,  and  in  a  certain  sense  they  do;  never- 
theless from  a  careful  study  of  their  journals  and 
letters  both  Hawthorne  and  George  Eliot  appear  to 
have  known  Italy  only  as  sightseers  and  students;  as 
keen  observers  amassing  material  from  something 
of  a  technical  point  of  view,  never  as  those  to 
whose  heart  Italy  spoke,  or  upon  the  inner  con- 
sciousness of  whom  its  spell  was  cast. 

Hawthorne,  who  lived  in  Rome  first  from  February 
to  May,  1858,  and  again  from  October,  1858,  to  May, 
1859,  wrote  to  Fields:  "  I  bitterly  detest  Rome,  and 
shall  rejoice  to  bid  it  farewell  forever.  ...  In  fact, 
I  wish  the  very  site  had  been  obliterated  before  I 
ever  saw  it." 

Perugia  seems  to  have  appealed  to  him  strongly, 
for  he  calls  it  "  the  most  picturesque  of  cities,"  and 
says  of  the  prospect  over  the  Umbrian  plain:  "No 
language  nor  any  art  of  the  pencil  can  give  an  idea 
of  the  scene." 

In  the  early  summer  of  1858  the  Hawthornes 
reached  Florence,  which  they  regarded  far  more 
favourably  than  Rome.  At  first  they  took  an  apart- 
ment in  the  Casa  Bella,  near  Casa  Guidi,  where  they 
had  much  neighbourly  intercourse  with  the  Brown- 
ings. In  August  they  moved  up  to  the  hill  of  Bel- 
losguardo,    where    they    inhabited   a   charming   old 


368  The  Spell  of  Italy 

villa.  Here  Hawthorne  devoted  himself  to  working 
out  the  theme  of  "  The  Marble  Faun."  He  writes 
to  Fields,  of  Villa  Montauto:  "I  like  my  present 
residence  immensely.  ...  I  hire  this  villa,  tower 
and  all,  at  twenty-eight  dollars  a  month;  but  I 
mean  to  take  it  away  bodily  and  clap  it  into  a 
romance." 

Siena  also  impressed  Hawthorne,  "  almost  tem- 
peramentally," being  classed  by  him  with  Perugia 
for  interest.  He  says  of  it:  "A  thoughtful,  shy  man 
might  settle  down  here  with  the  view  of  making  the 
place  a  home,  and  spend  many  years  in  a  kind  of 
sombre  happiness." 

Hawthorne's  New  England  frugahty  of  expression 
is  striking  throughout  his  recorded  impressions  of 
ItaHan  travel.  Now  and  then  we  meet  an  expression 
of  glowing  pleasure,  but  most  things  he  experiences 
make  him  perfectly  miserable  or  rather  wretched. 
The  roads  are  "  ugly  and  dusty; "  the  Arno  merely 
"  a  considerable  river,"  while  such  expressions  as 
"  I  do  not  remember  much  that  we  saw  on  our  route  " 
abound. 

To  plastic  art  Hawthorne  was  unresponsive,  being 
untrained  and,  apparently,  untrainable  in  perceiving 
anything  beyond  the  most  obvious  effects  of  bright 
colour  and  graceful  pose.  Altogether  one  is  forced 
to  the  conclusion  that  all  which  our  great  novelist 
gained  in  Italy,  and  perhaps  more  than  all,  is  to  be 


Authors  in  Italy  369 

found  within  the  pages  of  "  The  Marble  Faun." 
And  even  of  this  work  it  has  been  cleverly  said  by 
Hawthorne's  biographer:  ''It  is  throughout  a 
Puritan  romance,  which  has  wandered  abroad  and 
clothed  itself  in  strange  masquerade  in  the  Italian 
air." 

In  1860,  at  the  age  of  forty-one,  George  Eliot, 
accompanied  by  Mr.  Lewes,  visited  Italy,  only  the 
north  of  which  she  had  seen  before.  She  was  already 
a  famous  author,  the  "  Scenes  in  Clerical  Life," 
"Adam  Bede,"  "  MiU  on  the  Floss,"  and  "Silas 
Marner  "  having  been  published.  Their  route  was 
by  Mont  Cenis  to  Turin,  where  they  had  the  for- 
tune to  see  Cavour,  so  near  the  close  of  his  hfe.  — 
"  A  man  pleasant  to  look  upon,  with  a  smile  half- 
kind,  half-caustic;  giving  you  altogether  the  im- 
pression that  he  thinks  of  many  matters,  but  thanks 
Heaven  and  makes  no  boast  of  them,"  George  Ehot 
observes  of  Cavour,  and  again,  "  a  head  full  of  power 
mingled  with  bonhomie." 

Genoa,  Leghorn,  Pisa,  then  Civita  Vecchia,  and 
Rome  followed,  the  latter  being  reached  on  Palm 
Sunday  and  left  on  April  29th  for  Naples.  They 
diligently  visited  all  the  points  of  interest  in  that 
region  of  enchantment,  and  George  Eliot  writes:  "  It 
is  the  very  best  change  for  us  after  Rome;  there  is 
comparatively  little  art  to  see,  and  there  is  nature 
in  transcendent  beauty.    We  both  think  it  the  most 


370  The  Spell  of  Italy 

beautiful  place  in  the  world."  Psestum,  Salerno 
and  the  drive  thence  to  Amalfi  and  Sorrento  are 
described  as  "  unspeakably  grand."  Florence,  the 
real  heart  of  Italy  for  George  Eliot,  as  it  was  to 
prove,  was  reached  in  May,  and  the  winning  of  her 
incredible  erudition  was  begun  at  once.  Under 
date  of  June,  1860,  Mrs.  Browning  wrote  to  Miss 
Browning : 

"  Mr.  Lewes  and  Miss  Evans  have  been  here,  and 
are  coming  back.  I  admire  her  books  so  much  that 
certainly  I  shall  not  refuse  to  receive  her." 

There  were  several  later  sojourns  in  Florence, 
in  all  of  which  George  Eliot  lived  a  student's  life, 
the  conception  of  "  Romola  "  having  on  this  first 
visit  possessed  her.  She  wrote  later:  "  I  must  tell 
you  the  secret.  .  .  .  When  we  were  in  Florence  I 
was  rather  fired  with  the  idea  of  writing  an  historical 
romance,  —  scene,  Florence;  period,  the  close  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  which  was  marked  by  Savonarola's 
career  and  martyrdom." 

I  believe  the  impression  made  by  "  Romola " 
which  alone  connects  George  EHot  in  any  essential 
relation  with  Italy,  is  wholly  conditioned  by  the  tem- 
perament of  the  reader.  To  some  minds  it  is  the 
greatest  historical  novel,  to  others,  as  George  Saints- 
bury,  "  a  tour  de  force  executed  entirely  against  the 
grain."  Nevertheless,  we  have  the  author's  own 
pathetic   utterance   concerning  this  novel:    "  Eveiy 


Authors  in  Italy  371 

sentence  was  written  with  my  best  blood.  It  has 
made  me  often  sob  with  a  sort  of  painful  joy." 

Mr.  Cross  has  left   the  following  interesting  record : 

"  I  remember  my  wife  teUing  me  .  .  .  how  cruelly 
she  had  suffered  at  Dorking  from  working  (on 
'  Romola  ')  under  a  leaden  weight.  .  .  .  The  writing 
of  '  Romola  '  ploughed  into  her  more  than  any  of  her 
other  books.  She  told  me  she  could  put  her  finger 
on  it  as  marking  a  well-defined  transition  in  her  Ufe. 
In  her  own  words,  '  I  began  it  a  young  woman  —  I 
finished  it  an  old  woman.'  " 

So  much  subjectively;  what  for  Italy?  Oscar 
Browning  tells  us:  "  Read  *  Romola  '  when  you  have 
never  been  to  Florence,  it  will  make  you  long  to  go 
there;  read  it  when  you  have  learned  to  love  Florence, 
it  will  make  you  love  Florence  more." 

It  would  be  an  endless  task  to  trace  the  movements 
of  John  Ruskin  in  Italy,  and  yet  his  presence  there, 
frequent  and  prolonged,  and  his  intimate  knowledge 
of  every  corner  of  it  have  given  invaluable  practical 
gain  to  all  of  us  who  come  after.  His  first  visit  was 
in  1835,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  when  he  thought  as  a 
child  and  understood  as  a  cliild;  on  the  second,  in 
1840,  he  describes  himself  with  sardonic  impartiality 
as  a  sickly,  sulky  young  Philistine,  in  whom  nothing 
short  of  Michelangelo  could  arouse  interest.  Between 
that  journey  and  the  third  —  1845  —  he  awakens 
to  his  vocation  of    art    critic,  and  writes  the  first 


372  The  Spell  of  Italy 

volume  of  '*  Modern  Painters."  Thenceforward  his 
journeys  to  Italy  come  in  quick  succession  and  are  of 
a  professional  nature.  In  each  one  he  constitutes 
himself  an  impassioned  partisan  of  some  slighted  or 
misunderstood  master,  whether  Tintoretto,  Car- 
paccio,  Veronese,  or  Giotto.  His  growing  sense  of 
himself  as  an  oracle  makes  whimsical  confessions  hke 
the  following  regarding  his  first  visit  to  Rome  ex- 
quisitely humourous: 

"  I  studied  Raphael's  Stanze  long  and  carefully, 
admitting  at  once  that  there  was  more  in  them  than 
I  was  the  least  able  to  see  or  understand,  but  de- 
cisively ascertaining  that  they  could  not  give  me 
the  least  pleasure,  and  contained  a  mixture  of  Pa- 
ganism and  Papacy  wholly  inconsistent  with  the 
religious  instruction  I  had  received  in  Walworth." 

In  summing  up  the  prime  factors  of  his  intellectual 
development  Ruskin  says:  "There  have  been,  in 
sum,  three  centres  of  my  life's  thought:  Rouen, 
Geneva,  and  Pisa.  All  that  I  did  at  Venice  was  by- 
work.  .  .  .  But  Rouen,  Geneva,  and  Pisa  have  been 
tutresses  of  all  I  know,  and  were  mistresses  of  all  I 
did,  from  the  first  moments  I  entered  their  gates." 

Pisa  means  the  Pisani,  Gozzoli,  Orcagna.  From 
first  to  last  Ruskin  was  an  inveterate  Preraphaelite. 

There  are  many  more,  poets  and  others  our  bene- 
factors, who  have  claim  for  mention  here,  but  these 
have  been  taken  and  the  others  must  be  left. 


XVIII 

IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  APENNINE 

Bagni  di  Lucca,  Evening,  August  24. 

"  The  fireflies  pulsing  forth  their  rapid  gleams 
Are  the  only  light 
That  breaks  the  night ; 
A  stream  that  has  the  voice  of  many  streams 
Is  the  only  sound 
All  around  —  " 

0  sang  Lord  Houghton,  I  know  not  how 
many  years  ago,  on  this  very  spot!  We 
are  here  at  last  where  we  have  longed 
to  be,  hid  in  a  cleft  of  the  "  wind-grieved 
Apennine,"  and  here,  waiting  to  give  us  welcome,  is 
Contessa  Carletti;  her  children  are  with  her.  Peace 
is  here  also,  hid  in  the  heart  of  the  deep  Tuscan 
wood. 

We  left  Stresa  before  sunrise  and  came  by  Novara 
(with  many  thoughts  of  1849  and  Carlo  Alberto)  to 
Genoa,  and  down  along  the  Riviera  di  Levante  in 
scorching  heat.  We  passed  through  eighty-two 
tunnels  before,  seared  and  stained  with  fiery  fumes, 

373 


374  The  Spell  of  Italy 

we  tumbled  out  of  the  carriage,  which  had  assumed 
to  us  the  semblance  of  a  pit  in  the  Inferno,  at  Spezia. 
The  harbour  was  beautiful,  dotted  with  shining 
men-of-war,  but  the  only  charm  the  place  possesses 
is  that  given  this  whole  region  by  its  association  with 
Shelley.  It  was  too  warm  to  venture  upon  exploring 
drives,  and  we  remained  but  a  night,  hastening  on 
to  Viareggio  and  Pisa. 

Most  marvellous  we  found  the  group  of  the  Pisan 
Cathedral  buildings;  but  the  Campo  Santo,  with 
the  frescoes  of  Orcagna  and  Gozzoli,  is  the  crowning 
glory.  And  yet,  for  all  the  sweep  of  the  Arno,  for 
all  the  wonders  of  art,  for  all  the  memories  of  the 
great  Englishmen  who  have  found  in  it  a  home, 
Pisa  remains  to  me  what  Shelley  first  called  it,  "a 
large,  disagreeable  city  almost  without  inhabitants." 
Our  hotel  was  the  first  untidy  one  we  have  encoun- 
tered, and  we  were  told  it  was  Pisa's  best.  This,  we 
learned  later,  is  a  Ubel;  there  is  at  least  one  very 
good  hotel. 

The  things  I  shall  remember  longest  of  Pisa  are 
the  sunset  light  gilding  the  battlements  of  the  old 
city  wall;  the  music  of  the  echo  in  the  Baptistery, 
and  a  faded  figure  by  Fra  Angehco  of  the  Redeemer, 
in  the  Museo  Civico;  a  mystical  apparition  holding 
in  the  left  hand  the  Grail,  the  Cup  of  his  own  blood. 
The  right  hand  is  uplifted  in  a  gesture  strangely 
tender  yet  filling  one  with  awe,  and  in  the  eyes  is 


Heart  of  the  Apennine  375 

that  look  which  I  have  seen  only  in  Rembrandt's 
Chiist  until  now  —  the  look  of  one  who  has  tasted 
death  and  is  aHve. 

It  had  been  our  plan  to  "  see  "  Lucca  when  we 
reached  it,  but  when  that  happened  we  only  longed 
for  our  journey's  end  and  pushed  on  to  Bagni  di 
Lucca  by  the  little  special  railroad  as  fast  as  it 
would  carry  us  through  the  enchanting  Valley  of  the 
Serchio  and  the  narrow  gorge  of  the  Lima.  At 
Bagni  station  we  were  packed,  with  our  effects,  into 
two  carriages,  and  were  driven  up  a  mountain  road, 
through  chestnut  forest  to  this  high  point  among  the 
various  Bagni  which  is  known  as  Bagni  Caldi.  We 
drew  up  before  a  great  white  villa,  the  Albergo  delle 
Terme,  and  were  glad  to  find  ourselves  expected,  and 
to  escape  from  heat  and  dust  into  these  spacious, 
silent  and  shaded  rooms  awaiting  our  coming. 

Bagni  di  Lucca,  August  26. 
The  Virgins  are  climbing  an  impossible  mountain 
range  which  frowns  down  upon  us,  its  crest  formed  by 
the  walls  of  a  crumbling  old  fortified  town.  They 
are  under  the  care  of  Captain  Francis  Fletcher- 
Vane,  lineal  descendant  of  Sir  Hariy  Vane,  heir 
presumptive  to  the  Vane  estate  and  title. •^  So  much 
greatness  —  for,  added  to  this,  Captain  Vane  is  an 

'  Since  these  records  were  written  Captain  Vane  has  succeeded 
to  tlie  title  of  Baronet. 


376  The  Spell  of  Italy 

author  of  distinction,  a  soldier  and  an  M.  P.  — 
might  seem  oppressive,  but  is  in  reality  far  from  being 
so.  Captain  Vane  and  his  charming  wife  are  habitues 
of  Bagni  di  Lucca  and  of  this  old  grand-ducal  house, 
and  they  seem  to  stand  ready  to  make  newcomers 
at  ease  with  gi'acious,  unpretentious  kindhness. 
The  Captain  is  an  indefatigable  walker,  and  a  pic- 
turesque figure  in  khaki  and  white  helmet.  He 
begged  me  this  morning  to  let  the  Virgins  climb  with 
him  a  Uttle  matter  of  five  miles  to  Pieve,  and  an  horn- 
ago  they  started  forth  with  great  glee  and  chatter. 

Meanwhile  I  am  sitting  with  Contessa  Carletti  just 
within  the  moss-grown  wall  of  an  ancient  garden 
belonging  to  the  Albergo.  Seventy  years  or  so  ago 
the  house  was  built  as  a  villa  for  the  Grand  Duchess 
of  Tuscany.  It  was  the  fashion  then  to  come  here 
for  the  hot  springs.  Now,  fortunately,  it  is  no  longer 
the  fashion,  and  those  who  find  it  are  few  and  fit; 
there  is  no  Grand  Duchy  of  Tuscany  now,  for  it  is 
swallowed  up  with  all  the  other  duchies,  big  and 
little,  in  New  Italy.  So  the  Duchess's  villa  is  used 
as  an  hostelry  of  modest  pretensions  by  those  who 
still  seek  the  baths  or  the  deep  seclusion  of  the 
Apennines. 

Down  below  us  the  Lima  flows  shining  in  the  sun 
to  join  the  Serchio;  all  about  us  rise  tumultuously 
imposing  ranges  of  the  Apuan  Alps  and  the  Apennines, 
their  bases  terraced  with  vineyards  or  dense  with 


Heart  of  the  Apennine  377 

chestnut  wood.  We  are  sitting  under  a  pergola,  and 
the  shade  of  its  vines,  which  are  met  by  the  hori- 
zontal branches  of  the  ancient  sycamores  beyond  the 
wall,  is  so  dense  as  to  form  a  green  twilight,  cool  and 
profound.  The  road  down  into  the  valley  runs  at 
the  base  of  the  garden  wall,  quite  thirty  feet  below 
where  we  sit  beneath  the  scarred  and  mottled 
branches  of  the  sycamores.  The  air  is  sweet  with 
mountain  freslmess;  doves  croon  and  katydids 
chirp  all  day,  and  nightingales  sing  their  hearts  out. 
It  is  the  dreamiest  place;  we  seem  to  be  in  some  old 
fortified  castle,  shut  in  by  the  massive  wall  to  this 
still,  moss-grown  seclusion.  The  garden  is  flower- 
less,  —  a  sweet  disorder  of  careless  undergrowth. 
Everywhere,  in  the  ilex  arbours  and  under  the 
pergolas,  small  rustic  tables  and  chairs  have  been 
placed;  here  we  sit  with  our  coffee,  our  tea,  our 
books,  our  writing,  our  gossip. 

The  Contessa  says  this  place  is  haunted,  that  she 
is  never  unconscious  of  a  sense  of  the  great  souls  who 
have  loved  it  and  who  have  lingered  here  in  past 
generations.  We  have  started  to  read  together  Mrs. 
Orr's  "  Life  of  Browning "  and  are  quite  excited 
over  a  letter  of  Mrs.  Browning's  just  come  upon. 
I  must  copy  a  few  lines  of  it  here: 

"  I  persuaded  Robert  to  go  to  the  Baths  of  Lucca, 
only  to  see  them.  .  .  .  We  had  both  of  us,  but  he 
cliiefly,   the   strongest   prejudice  against  the   Baths 


378  The  Spell  of  Italy 

of  Lucca;  taking  them  for  a  sort  of  wasp's  nest 
of  scandal  and  gaming,  and  expecting  to  find  every- 
thing trodden  flat  by  the  Continental  Enghsh  —  yet, 
I  wanted  to  see  the  place,  because  it  is  a  place  to  see, 
after  all.  So  we  came,  and  were  so  charmed  by  the 
exquisite  beauty  of  the  scenery,  by  the  coolness  of  the 
climate,  and  the  absence  of  our  countrymen  .  .  .  that 
we  made  an  offer  for  rooms  on  the  spot,  and  returned 
to  Florence  for  Baby  and  the  rest  of  our  establish- 
ment without  further  delay.  Here  we  are,  then. 
We  have  taken  a  sort  of  eagle's  nest  in  this  place  — 
the  highest  house  of  the  highest  of  the  three  villages 
which  are  called  Bagni  di  Lucca  "  (surely  that  must 
be  our  very  Bagni  Caldi)  "  and  which  lie  at  the  heart 
of  a  hundred  mountains  sung  to  continually  by  a 
rushing  mountain  stream.  .  .  .  The  air  of  the  place 
seems  to  penetrate  the  heart,  and  not  the  lungs 
only ;  it  draws  you,  raises  you,  excites  you.  Moun- 
tain air  without  its  keenness  —  sheathed  in  Italian 
sunshine  —  think  what  that  must  be !  " 

Bagni  di  Lucca,  August  30. 
I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  this  place  is  a 
cult,  Uke  RavcUo.  Only  the  few  can  know  or  feel 
its  grave  charm.  Now  and  then  some  stranger 
appears,  looks  about,  sees  "  nothing  doing,"  and  an 
edge  frayed  on  the  stair-carpet,  orders  his  vetturino, 
and  departs  next  morning  for  Lucerne  or  Zermatt. 


Heart  of  the  Apennine  379 

If  any  one  really  comes,  of  intention,  and  prepares 
to  stay,  we  all  assail  Mm  or  her  with  the  challenge, 
How  did  you  come  to  know  about  Bagni?  There  are 
Interesting  Italian  famihes,  four  or  five  only,  certain 
English  of  light  and  leading,  and  a  few  Florentine- 
Americans.  I  tliink  there  are  no  Romans  save  the 
Carletti's. 

But  the  central  personage  of  the  company  here  is 
il  Dottore,  as  we  call  him,  —  the  same  young  phy- 
sician of  whom  we  caught  a  glimpse  on  our  last 
day  in  Rome.  Doctor  ^  Giorgi  comes  to  Bagni 
merely  as  a  consulting  physician  for  the  summer 
guests,  and  we  have  all  come,  in  point  of  fact,  more 
or  less  directly  because  he  is  here.  He  is  one  of  those 
beings  of  potent  personality  whom  we  encounter 
at  rare  intervals  in  this  world  of  commonplace, 
whose  entrance  into  a  roomful  of  people  is  instantly 
felt  in  a  subtle  toning  higher  of  every  one's  spirit. 
Such  a  contrast  is  Doctor  Giorgi  to  my  old  concep- 
tion of  an  Itahan  physician,  which  I  believe  was 
modelled  on  the  astrologer-alchemist  figure  of  fiction 
of  a  past  generation!  He  is  talking  with  Mrs.  Fletcher- 
Vane  now  down  at  the  far  end  of  the  pergola,  the 
sun  full  upon  Mm,  a  fair-haired,  fair-skinned  fellow, 
with  colour  Hke  a  girl's,  a  graceful,  spirited  figure,  a 
buoyant  step,  a  frank,  winning  smile.  His  English  is 
perfect  and  rendered  fascinating  by  the  Italian  pro- 

1  This  is  not  il  Dottore's  name  ! 


380  The  Spell  of  Italy 

longation  of  the  vowel  sounds.  His  professional 
reputation  is  remarkable  and  promises  a  precocious 
fame,  for  he  is  little  over  thirty.  I  must  stop  writing 
about  liim,  for  he  is  coming  down  the  path  under  the 
flickering  sun  and  shadow  to  greet  me.  .  .  . 

II  Dottore  has  done  his  devoir  by  me  and  gone  on 
to  a  group  on  the  upper  terrace,  composed  of  a  de- 
tachment of  Virgins  in  act  of  adoring  Gigi  Carletti 
and  his  Madonna4ike  mother.  They  make  an  ad- 
mirable Perugino  from  here!  I  remember  that 
characterization  of  the  Contessa's  when  she  first 
pointed  out  Doctor  Giorgi  to  me,  —  "  that  fine,  fair 
man  with  the  crest  of  irony  on  the  wave  of  his  earn- 
estness." He  cannot  say  his  gay  "  Go-o-od  morn- 
ing, St.  Ursula!"  (I  am  Ursula  here,  by  common 
consent,  to  all  the  inner  circle)  without  his  dehcious 
little  implication  that  your  presence  enhances  the 
morning's  value;  and  when  he  adds  his  soHcitous 
"  And  have  you  slept?  "  his  humourous  smile  takes 
you  wholly  into  his  confidence  and  assures  you  that 
whether  you  have  or  not  is  really  a  matter  of  perfect 
indifference  when  God  is  in  such  a  heaven  and  all's 
right  with  such  a  world.  The  man  is  convincing, 
wholly  and  seriously,  —  with  all  his  abounding 
buoyant  gaiety,  —  of  goodness  at  the  heart  of 
things;  doubtless  this  gives  him  his  quite  extraor- 
dinary success  with  nervous  patients.  And  that 
swiftness  of  intuition  so  characteristic  of  his  race 


Heart  of  the  Apennine  381 


is  his  in  a  degree  which  I  find  fairly  startUng.  He 
tells  me  that  we  should  not  fail  to  make  the  excursion 
to  Prato  Fiorito,  a  marvellous  place  no  doubt  and 
sacred  to  Shelley,  who  almost  fainted  with  the  fra- 
grance of  the  jonquils,  which  blossom  there  in  great 
abundance,  together  with  pansies,  gentians,  and  other 
wild  flowers. 

Surely  we  must  cHmb  Prato  Fiorito,  for  it  was  a 
haunt  of  the  Brownings  and  Storys,  too,  in  their 
many  summers  here,  and  perhaps,  best  of  all,  some- 
where on  the  way  we  may  discover  that  mountain 
gorge  where  Browning  caught  the  inspiration  for 
"  By  the  Fireside,"  which  I  joy  to  find  belongs  to 
these  mountains.  The  poem  interprets  the  essential 
spirit  of  the  place. 

•'  Look  at  the  ruined  chapel  again 

Half-way  up  in  the  Alpine  gorge  ! 
Is  that  a  tower,  I  point  you  plain, 

Or  is  it  a  mill,  or  an  iron-forge 
Breaks  solitude  in  vain? 


"  And  yonder,  at  fork  of  the  fronting  ridge 
That  takes  the  tiirn  to  the  range  beyond, 
Is  the  chapel  reached  by  the  one-arched  bridge 

Where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a  stagnant  pond 
Danced  over  by  the  midge. 

«  Poor  little  place,  where  its  one  priest  comes 
On  a  festa-day,  if  he  comes  at  all, 


382  The  Spell  of  Italy 

To  the  dozen  folk  from  their  scattered  homes, 

Gathered  within  that  precinct  small 
By  the  dozen  ways  one  roams. 


"  And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 

And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the  pond  at  times  ; 

The  place  is  silent  and  aware  ; 

It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and  crimes 

But  that  is  its  own  affair." 

These  and  all  the  rest  of  those  verses,  with  their 
intimate  and  penetrating  sweetness,  belong  to  1853. 
The  Brownings  were  here  first  in  1849  and  again  in 
'57.  I  do  not  know  whether  there  were  other  sum- 
mers here,  but  how  one  loves  to  read  Story's  story 
of  the  "  whole  day  in  the  woods  with  the  Brownings. 
We  went  at  ten  o'clock,  carrying  our  provisions. 
Browning  and  I  walked  to  the  spot,  and  there, 
spreading  shawls  under  the  great  chestnuts,  we  read 
and  talked  the  Mvelong  day,  the  Lima,  at  our  feet, 
babbling  on  over  the  stones." 

"In  a  Balcony  "  belongs  also  to  that  summer  of 
'53  here  in  Bagni. 

Bagni  di  Lucca,  September  2. 

Yesterday  we  walked  by  il  Colle  and  Due  Fontane 

to  the  village  of  Annunciata,  which  is  proudly  claimed 

by  its  inhaliitants  to  be  the  smallest  \illage  in  the 

world.   It  consists  of  the  tiny  chapel  of  S.  Annunciata, 


Heart  of  the  Apennine  383 

fit  to  be  Browning's  own,  and  two  ancient  cottages. 
From  the  strange  little  place  we  walked  down  by  a 
dreamy  foot-path  thickly  shaded  with  plane-trees, 
to  Villa,  a  neat  little  Anghcan  settlement,  suggestive, 
like  Cadenabbia,  of  garden-parties,  tennis,  and 
tourists.  There  are  charms,  however,  in  Villa  which 
I  foresee  will  lead  us  often  back  again:  excellent 
pasticcerie  for  gelati,  —  to  obtain  which  seems  now 
the  ruling  passion  of  my  Eleven  Thousand,  —  and 
a  singularly  fascinating,  vine-wreathed  library  with 
a  small,  archaic  hbrarian  who  looks  precisely  Uke 
Charles  Lamb,  and  who  cannot  take  trouble  enough 
for  you  to  make  him  quite  happy.  It  was  a  joy  to 
range  among  the  old  books,  which  smelled  of  ancient 
leather  and  yellow  leaves,  and  bore  no  date  more 
recent  than  the  early  sixties. 

On  our  entrance  into  Villa  we  stopped  to  stare  with 
interest  at  Casa  Buonisi,  now  the  Pension  villa 
Margherita.  It  has  a  charming  appearance,  and  for 
a  moment  I  wavered  in  my  allegiance  to  Bagni 
Caldi,  especially  when  I  found  that,  besides  its 
rather  stupid  legends  of  English  Pretenders,  this 
house  was  once  Shelley's  residence  and  the  place 
where  Byron  was  his  guest.  But  on  second  thought 
the  lovely  life  up  aloft  in  our  own  old  rambhng 
house  and  garden  on  its  woody  height  reasserted  its 
superior  charm. 

More  than  ever  was  this  the  case  on  our  return,  a 


384  The  Spell  of  Italy 

little  tired  from  the  walk,  when  we  found  our  dear 
Contessa  Cecilia  leaning  over  the  wall  to  wave  us  a 
welcome  with  a  telegram.  We  made  all  haste  up  to 
the  terrace,  and  found  her  in  high  glee  over  the  word 
just  come  from  il  Conte  in  Paris  that  he  will  arrive 
to-morrow.  The  despatch  adds  that  he  will  bring 
with  him  a  friend  whom  she  will  be  glad  to  welcome. 
The  Contessa  is  quite  puzzled  as  to  who  this  friend 
may  be,  who  has  sufficient  sense,  so  she  puts  it,  to 
want  to  come  to  Bagni. 

Bagni  di  Lucca,   September  3. 

Incidentally  we  are  taking  the  baths  of  Lucca, 
which  seem  to  be  good  for  any  disorder  preferred.  We 
go  down  at  nine  in  the  morning  by  a  public  stone 
stair  below  the  Albergo,  that  I  shrewdly  suspect  of 
being  the  principal  street  of  the  place.  At  the  foot 
of  these  stairs  is  the  stabiliemento,  the  most  open- 
hearted  affair  imaginable.  We  enter  a  gallery  on 
which,  with  engaging  frankness,  small  bathrooms 
open,  in  each  of  which  is  a  vast  marble  vat.  Into 
these  vats  the  water  is  conducted  from  the  boiling 
springs  in  the  mountainside  and  is  cooled  to  the 
taste. 

We  wait  in  the  gallery  with  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  laity  and  clergy,  until  a  firm-figured  Tuscan 
woman,  named  Lisa,  with  strong  gray  eyes  and  heavy 
lashes,    which    give    her    an    almost    embarrassing 


Heart  of  the  Apennine  385 

beauty,  smiles  upon  us  her  grave  and  gracious  signal 
that  she  is  ready.  Then  we  are  locked  into  the  bath 
while  she  leaves  us  after  sundry  quiet  questions  of 
gentle  soUcitude,  as,  —  "  Sta  bene  ?  Va  bene  ?  "  and 
her  sweet  "  A  river derla  !  "  for  an  absence  of  ten 
minutes.  She  returns,  wraps  us  in  infantile  fashion 
in  soft  Hnen,  then  rubs  and  pats  us  into  a  deUcious 
glow  with  her  supple,  brown  hands. 

Lisa  has  such  a  queenly  presence  and  such  strik- 
ing beauty  that  one  at  first  regards  her  as  a  kind  of 
conquering  favourite  of  fortune.  But  Filia  has  been 
to  her  home  and  finds  it  the  humblest  little  place,  a 
real  Tuscan  peasant  cottage,  with  the  flaring  fire  of 
sticks  on  the  bare  hearth,  the  kettle  hanging  over, 
and  six  or  seven  small  Vittorio's  and  Amadeo's,  who 
gazed  at  her  soberly  out  of  Lisa's  own  long-lashed 
eyes. 

Our  morning  has  been  given  to  plans  for  the  Vir- 
gins, who,  alas,  are  to  sail  from  Genoa  a  week  from 
to-day.  The  question  now  pi-esscs,  Is  it  Ursula's 
duty  to  assist  at  the  embarkation?  Ursula  is  a 
fitting  figure  at  embarkations  and  I  love  the  Vir- 
gins, but  I  groan  at  the  thought  of  threading  my  way 
back  through  those  hundred  more  or  less  tunnels.  Oh, 
for  a  Prince  Conon  to  see  to  the  luggage  and  make 
sure  that  dear  little  Barbara  does  not  leave  her 
steamer  ticket  under  her  pillow  at  the  hotel!  Her 
absent-mindedness  is  wholly   justified   by   the   fact 


386  The  Spell  of  Italy 

that  she  is  in  love,  but  it  leads  to  complications  over 
wliich  she  is  so  penitent  that  no  one  can  be  vexed 
for  very  long.  Yesterday  I  found  her,  as  she  said, 
"  weeping  on  her  own  shoulder  "  because  she  had 
left  a  large  package  of  Margherita  pasta,  bought  at 
Ponte  for  our  afternoon  terrace  tea,  down  in  the  post- 
office.  "  And  there  I  had  thought  myself  so  clever 
to  go  and  buy  it,"  she  wailed.  "  Really  FiUa  said 
herself  that  I  showed  almost  human  intelligence!  " 

It  is  evening,  and  we  are  in  a  state  of  high  ex- 
hilaration. Signor  Conte  Carletti  has  arrived  and 
with  him  is  Signor  Aztalos.  They  met  in  Paris,  it 
seems,  where  our  friend  was  preparing  for  a  sudden 
departure  to  New  York.  Conte  Carletti  found  him 
utterly  worn  out  by  a  month  of  fierce  heat  in  the 
city.  His  plan  had  been  to  sail  from  Cherbourg,  but 
il  Conte  quickly  convinced  him  that  Genoa  was  pref- 
erable, and  a  week  at  Bagni  di  Lucca  among  old 
and  newish  friends  quite  imperative  for  his  health. 
The  advent  of  "  two  perfectly  good  men,"  as  Mar- 
gherita calls  them,  is  an  event,  among  so  many 
maidens,  and  I  am  sure  Captain  Fletcher- Vane  will 
welcome  this  reinforcement.  However,  the  Virgins 
are  pouting  already,  because  they  say  Signor 
Aztalos  wishes  to  give  the  coming  week  almost 
wholly  to  a  critical  study  of  Dante.  This  is  voted 
wretched  sport  for  summer  vacation,  and  many 
jokes  are  perpetrated  on  people  who  drag  you  to  Pur- 


Heart  of  the  Apennine  387 

gatory  in  this  warm  weather.  Fiha  says,  however, 
that  she  finished  the  Purgatorio  on  the  ship  and  has 
been  in  Paradiso  ever  since  we  landed.  Next 
Wednesday,  at  least,  there  must  be  pause  in  the 
Dante  study,  for  that  day  is  to  be  given  to  Lucca. 

Bagni  di  Lucca,  September  5. 

All  goes  well.  I  am  released  from  another  journey 
through  the  Inferno.  By  dihgent  telegraphing, 
Signor  Aztalos  has  succeeded  in  securing  passage  on 
the  same  steamer  with  the  Virgins.  Prince  Conon 
has  come  to  the  rescue  as  if  by  magic ! 

"  Read  Dante  every  day  and  all  day  long  if  you 
like,  Filia!"  the  girls  now  cry  in  taunting  tones. 
"  We  shall  have  your  Narcissus  all  to  ourselves  on 
the  voyage  home,  and  it  will  go  hard  if  we  can't 
drive  your  image  from  his  heart  in  two  weeks  of 
tireless  endeavour!  " 

Signor  Aztalos  seems  to  find  the  derision  of  the 
Virgins  amusing  but  unimportant.  He  and  Filia 
have  settled  back  into  the  practice  of  study  as 
naturally  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday  we  left  the 
Illustrissima  Principessa.  The  Contessa  declares  our 
Greek  friend  perfectly  affiliated!  Fiha  herself  is 
impervious  to  gibes  of  every  form. 

I  have  taken  a  moderate,  middle-aged  walk  with 
the  Carlettis  to  an  old  mill  in  a  gorge  where  cool 
water  drips  musically  over  the  wet,  moss-hung  wheel. 


388  The  Spell  of  Italy 

We  walked  through  deep  woods,  up  hill  and  down 
glade,  now  and  then  meeting  peasants  who  gave  us, 
as  always  here,  respectful  but  not  obsequious  salu- 
tation. The  Contessa  says  that  this  corner  of  North- 
ern Tuscany  is  like  our  New  Hampshire,  and  that 
the  Tuscans  are  the  Puritans  of  Italy.  The  peasants 
are  a  deeply  religious,  silent,  steadfast  people  of 
striking  soberness  and  morality.  Dishonesty  is  a 
thing  unlooked  for  and  unknown  among  them.  The 
Count  has  been  here  in  October,  and  he  described 
the  chestnut  gathering  and  the  merry-making  which 
goes  with  it  most  interestingly  in  his  broken  English. 
The  chestnuts  are  dried  over  great  log  fires  kept 
burning  night  and  day  in  the  forest  for  a  month. 
Afterwards  the  husks  are  shaken  free  and  the  nuts 
are  sent  to  be  ground  into  meal.  From  this  meal 
cakes  are  made  which  the  women  enclose  in  chest- 
nut leaves  and  roast  between  hot  stones.  How 
simple,  how  primitive,  how  wholesome  it  sounds! 
These  people  are  content  to  Hve  all  winter  on  this 
need  or  polenta.  How  much  happier  these  Tuscans 
who  stay  in  their  native  forests  are  than  those  who 
come  to  our  country  with  its  sharp  air,  its  crude 
luxuries,  its  corrupting  vices!  Such  was  my  re- 
flection, but  the  Contessa  disagreed  with  me. 

"  These  peasants,"  she  said,  "  arc  content  to  live 
on  the  primitive  plane  of  their  ancestors  of  centuries 
ago.   They  make  absolutely  no  advance,  economically, 


Heart  of  the  Apennine  389 

agriculturally,  or  intellectually.  It  is  a  good  thing 
for  some  of  them,  at  least,  to  emigrate  and  learn  to 
stand  the  strain  of  a  more  complex  civilization. 
They  bring  home  what  the  Itahan  chiefly  needs,  the 
germ  of  a  divine  discontent." 

Bagni  di  Lucca,  September  8. 

Yesterday  was  spent  in  Lucca,  a  small  army  of  us 
taking  the  early  morning  train  from  Bagni  station, 
returning  at  night  just  in  time  for  dinner.  I  should 
have  feared  that  we  would  be  mistaken  for  a  de- 
tachment of  Cook's  tourists,  only  that  Lucca,  I  am 
satisfied,  never  saw  or  heard  of  such.  Wliy  should 
they  make  pilgrimage  to  Lucca?  It  has  no  famous 
ruins  and  no  particularly  infamous  legends;  it  lies 
four  square  between  its  grassy  ramparts;  it  has  its 
Cathedral  and  half-dozen  other  churches,  its  stories 
of  departed  greatness,  its  deserted  piazzas,  its  patron 
saints,  and  —  it  has  Ilaria ! 

To  me  the  residuum  of  our  day  was  the  sense  of 
spacious  peace  and  unstriving  completeness  which 
Lucca  itself  imparts,  and  the  essence  of  these  with 
a  celestial  loveliness  superadded  in  Delia  Quercia's 
effigy  of  the  long  dead  great  lady  of  Lucca. 

It  was  in  the  year  1845  that  John  Ruskin  dis- 
covered and  fell  in  love  with  Ilaria,  and  many  times 
he  visited  her.  Grown  an  old  man,  he  returned  to  her 
effigy  in  the  Cathedral.    "It  is  forty  years  since  I  first 


390  The  Spell  of  Italy 

saw   it,"  he    said,  "  and   I   have    never    found   its 
like." 

For  a  month  in  that  September  of  1882,  Colling- 
wood  declares  Ruskin  kept  him  busy  drawing  Ilaria, 
"  side-face,  full-face,  three-quarters,  every  way. 
Ruskin  himself  painted  hard  and  never  did  better 
work.  ...  He  used  to  sit  in  quaint  attitudes  on 
his  camp  stool.  .  .  .  Baxter,  his  valet,  holding  the 
colour-box  up  for  him  to  dip  into,  and  a  Uttle  crowd 
always  looking  on." 

Such  devotion  to  a  bit  of  ancient  marble  in  its 
remote,  forgotten  solitude  may  seem  an  affectation, 
but  not  after  one  sees  Ilaria,  lying,  queenly  and 
maidenly,  sweet  and  solemn,  with  folded  hands  and 
eyelids.  I  let  the  others  go  to  hunt  up  the  other 
things,  which  having  come  all  the  way  to  Lucca  one 
must  not  be  so  thriftless  as  to  fail  of,  and  I  spent  a 
happy  hour  alone  in  the  Cathedral  by  the  lady's 
side.  But  I  cannot  think  of  describing  Ilaria  myself, 
far  less  of  seeking  to  decorate  the  noble  gi'avity  of 
her  womanhood  with  fantastic  fringes  of  imaginary 
intrigue  and  adventure.  Ruskin,  in  Chapter  XVII 
of  the  second  volume  of  "  Modern  Painters,"  has 
given  us  the  secret  of  her  distinction  in  a  descriptive 
passage  of  inimitable  beauty.  Mr.  Hewlett,  who 
exclaims  that  it  is  hard  to  be  temperate  over  Ilaria, 
adds  in  his  "  Earth  Work  out  of  Tuscany,"  the  last 
word   that  need  ever  be  spoken  in  the  attempt  of 


Heart  of  the  Apennine  391 

dramatic  touch.  Let  us  read  him  and  be  satisfied. 
This  is  what  he  sees: 

"  Ilaria  was  a  tall  Tuscan,  —  the  girls  of  Lucca  are 
out  of  the  common  tall,  and  straight  as  larches,  — 
of  fine  birth  and  a  life  of  minstrels  and  gardens.  .  .  . 
Young  to  die,  young  to  die  and  leave  the  pleasant 
ways  of  Lucca,  the  green  ramparts,  the  grassy  walks 
in  the  pastures  where  the  hawks  fly  and  the  shadows 
fleet  over  the  gi'een  and  gold  of  early  May.  Young 
enough,  Ilaria.  Scorner  of  love,  now  Death  is  at 
hand.  .  .  .  Let  him  come,  says  Ilaria,  with  raised 
eyebrows  and  a  wintry  smile.  Yet  she  fought:  her 
thin  hands  held  off  the  scythe  at  arms'  length;  she 
set  her  teeth  and  battled  with  the  winged  beast. 
Whenas  she  knew  it  must  be,  suddenly  she  relaxed 
her  hold,  and  Death  had  his  way  with  her. 

"  Then  her  women  came  about  her  and  robed  her 
in  a  long  robe,  colour  of  olive  leaves,  and  soft  to  the 
touch.  And  they  covered  her  feet  and  placed  them 
on  a  crouching  dog,  wliich  was  Lucca.  But  her  fine 
hands  they  folded  peace-wise  below  her  bosom,  to 
rest  quietly  there  Hke  the  clasps  of  a  girdle.  Her 
gentle  hair  (bright  brown  it  was,  like  a  yearhng 
chestnut)  they  crowned  also,  and  closed  down  her 
ringed  eyes.  So  they  let  her  lie  till  judgment  come. 
And  when  I  saw  her  the  close  robe  still  folded  her 
about  and  ran  up  her  throat  lovingly  to  her  chin, 
till  her  head  seemed  to  thrust  from  it  as  a  flower  from 


392  The  Spell  of  Italy 

its  calyx.  It  would  seem,  too,  as  if  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell,  that  her  nostrils  quivered  when  the  wind 
blew  in  and  touched  them;  and  the  hem  of  her  gar- 
ment being  near  me,  I  was  fain  to  kiss  it  and  say  a 
prayer  to  the  divinity  haunting  that  place.  So  I 
left  the  presence,  well  disposed  in  my  heart  to  glorify 
God  for  so  fair  a  sight." 

To  all  this  let  me  add  only  for  bare  fact  that 
Ilaria,  who  died  in  1405,  was  daughter  of  the  Marquis 
of  Carretto  and  wife  of  Paolo  Guinigi,  chief  of  a 
powerful  family  of  Lucca.  The  Palazza  Guinigi  still 
stands  at  the  corner  of  the  Via  Sant'  Andrea,  and  on 
the  uppermost  stones  of  its  tall  Gothic  tower  three 
ilex-trees  have  sprung  up  from  bird-sown  seed,  a 
landmark  and  a  sign,  rising  above  Lucca's  walls, 
seen  from  near  and  far. 

Bagni  di  Lucca,  September  11. 

Filia  and  I  have  just  finished  our  morning  coffee, 
taken  as  usual  on  the  terrace  behind  the  villa,  upon 
which  my  great  French  window  opens. 

How  still  it  is !  and  a  pungent  autumnal  odour  is  on 
the  morning  air.  Usually  at  this  hour  this  shadowed 
bank  has  blossomed  with  the  gay  flowers  of  the 
Virgins'  negligee,  lilac,  blue,  pink,  and  much  ruffled, 
and  the  quiet  woods  above  us  have  rung  jubilant 
with  their  laughter  and  roUicking  nonsense. 

This  morning  Filia  and  I  are  alone,  and  the  place 


Heart  of  the  Apennine  393 

seems  empty  and  sober-hued.  It  is  the  change  of 
season,  the  change  of  front  also.  We  had  purposed 
ourselves  to  return  to  America  this  month  when  we 
started  from  home,  but  now  the  case  is  different. 
We  are  here.  Why  should  we  return  with  so  much 
still  to  win  and  to  winnow ! 

The  Spell  of  Italy  is  upon  us  and  we  elect 
not  yet  to  break  it.  Until  the  heats  of  early 
autumn  are  well  over  we  shall  abide  in  deep 
content  here  among  the  Tuscan  mountains.  But 
Venice  awaits  us  and  we  cannot  delay  overlong  to 
see  it,  and  after  it  that  unknown  east  shore,  which 
borders  the  Adriatic.  But  the  Mighty  Mother, 
Rome,  calls  loudest,  and  when  the  season  once  more 
changes  we  know  —  how  well !  —  what  we  mean 
to  do,  and  what  corner  of  what  old  Roman  palazzo 
we  mean  to  make  our  own. 

And  then,  can  we  leave  Italy  with  Sicily  yet  un- 
visited,  —  Sicily,  "the  key  to  all?"  No,  the  round 
year  will  not  be  too  long. 


THE  END, 


INDEX 


Adige,  The,  307,  312. 

Adriatic,  33. 

Albano,  108,  346,  352. 

Alexander,   Francesca,  328. 

Allen,  Grant,  293. 

Alps,  33,  322;    Brescian,  313; 

Apuan,  376. 
Amalfi,  70,  72-77,  85,  90. 
Anio,  Falls  of,  144. 
Annunciata,  382. 
d'Annunzio,    157. 
Apennines,   81,   82,    109.   245, 

313,  351,  373,  376. 
Aquarium  (Naples),  22,  23. 
Asolo,  361,  365,  366. 
Assisi,  67,   163,   171,  237-249, 

344. 
Assisi,  St.  Francis  of,  230-249; 

order  of,  164,  233,  234. 
Atrani,  77,  85. 
Augustus  Caesar,  126;   age  of, 

69. 
Austria,  28,  29,  30,  34,  100,  139. 
Austrians,  The,  32,  37,  42,  101, 

104. 

Baedeker,  18,  82,  233,  293,  299. 
Baglioni,  103,  168,  170,  174. 
Bagni  di  Lucca,  154,  335,  352, 

358,  373-393. 
Bagot,   291. 
Bassi,  Ugo,  42,  43. 
Beccafumi,   265. 
Bellaggio,  325. 
Berenson.   293. 
Bernini.   148,  159. 
Bersaglieri,  23. 


Bisletti,   146. 
Blashfields,  The,  292. 
Boccaccio,  334,  358. 
Bologna,  42,  341,  343. 
Bolsena,  Miracle  of,  159-161. 
Bonaparte,  Napoleon,  101,  320. 
Bonfigli,  173. 
Borromean  Islands,  326. 
Botticelli,  267,  269,  318. 
Browning,  271,  272,  273,  359, 

360,    3^61,    381. 
Browning,    Elizabeth    B.,    99, 

272,  273,  336,  360,  362,  363, 

364,  370,  377. 
Byron,  350,  355,  356,  383. 
Byzantine  Rule,  75,  100,  127, 

129. 

Cadenabbia,  324. 

Campanelle,  110. 

Capo  d'Orso,  81,  89. 

Capri,  52-63. 

Carabinieri,  23,  278. 

Carbonari,  31,  355. 

Carducci,  155. 

Carlo  Alberto,  31,  32. 

"  Casa  Guidi  Windows,"  363. 

Castellamare,  63. 

Cavour,  27,  29,  31,  32,  33,  40, 

363,  369. 
Certosa  di  Pavia,  316. 
Charlemagne,    100,    101,    127, 

320. 
Chaucer,    334. 

Como,  Lake,  120,  319.  322-325. 
Constantine.     125,     126,     149; 

age  of,  172. 


395 


396 


Index 


Constantinople,  127. 

Corpus  Christi,  Festival  of,  106, 

144,  145,  159,  161. 
Cost  of  Travel,  275-279. 
Cost  of  Living,  279-282. 
Cranch,  91. 
Crawford,  292. 
Crawford,  Mrs.,  152. 
Curci,  138. 

Dante,  102,  159,  268,  300,  304, 

334,   348. 
De  Bosis,  153. 
De  Bosis,  Mrs.  Liliana,  153. 
Delia  Quercia,  260,  264,  389. 
Dennis,  175,  176. 
Diocletian,  149,  150. 
Duccio   di    Buoninsegna,    159, 

266. 
Duchess  of  Genoa,  330,  331. 
Duff  Gordon,  Miss,  164,  245. 

Elena  (Queen),  112-116. 

Emerson,   358. 

d'Este,  House  of,  102;  Leo- 
nora, 68,  69,  102;  Beatrice, 
319. 

Etruria,  98,  103;  Twelve  of, 
157,  169. 

Etruscans,  97,  98,  103. 

Euganean  Hills,  352. 

Ezekiel,  Moses  (sculptor),  122, 
150,  151,  152,  153. 

Faido,   326. 

Ferrara,  341,  343. 

Field,  Kate,  359. 

Fiesole,  294,  341. 

Florence,  67,  120,  174,  267-273, 

283-285,  357,  362,  363,  370; 

bridges  of,  285;  Bellosguardo, 

338    367 
Fogazzaro,  141,  143,  154,  292. 
Fra  Angelico,  158,  161,  174. 
Francesca,  318. 
Frascati,  108,  143,  346. 

Galileo,  338. 
GaUi,  The,  71. 


Garda,  Lake,  307,  342. 
Garibaldi,  26,  27,  30,  31,  34,  37, 

38,  40. 
George  Eliot,  366,  369-371. 
Genoa,  27,  329.  355,  356. 
Ghibellines,  102,  299. 
Giotto,  159,  242. 
Goethe,   17,  68,  69,  286,  341- 

347. 
Gozzoli,  267,  268,  372,  374. 
Gregory  IX.,  243. 
Guelphs,  102,  162,  299. 
Guido  Reni,  107. 

Hadrian's  Villa,  119,  144. 
Hall,  Mrs.  M.  S.,  293. 
Hawthorne,  366-369. 
Hewlett,   289,   290,   306,   307, 

390. 
Homer,  46,  71. 
Horace,  121,  144, 
Howells,  252,  285. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  353,  354. 
Hutton,  Edward,  159,  234,  274, 

289,   290. 

Ilaria,  389-392. 

IlTrovatore,  141,  143. 

Innocent  III.,    164,  233,   234. 

Innocent  X.,  107. 

Iron  Crown  of  Lombardy,  101, 
139,  320. 

Italy,  of  Foreign  Invasion,  99, 
103;  Hundred  of.  169;  New, 
24-43,  292;  Primitive  or 
Tribal,  97,  168,  174;  Roman, 
98,  168;  United,  45;  Young, 
31. 

Jameson,  Mrs.,  294. 

"John    Inglesant,"    106,    290, 

292. 
Julius  Caesar,  98,  125. 
Julius  III.,  163. 
Junius  Brutus,  124. 

Kauffman,  Angelica,  346. 
Keats,  348,  354,  361. 
King,  Bolton,  288. 


Index 


397 


Lang,  Andrew,  121,  130-132. 

Latins,  The,  97. 

Landor,  354,  357-361. 

Leghorn,  338,  352,  353,  362. 

Leonardo,  318,  319. 

Leo  XIIL    (Pecci),    146,    165- 

169. 
Lima,  The,  375,  376,  382. 
Lombards,  The,  99. 
Lombardy,  30,  36,  277,  312. 
Longfellow,  85. 
Lucca,  154,  341,  348,  375,  389, 

392. 
Luini,  318,  319. 

Magenta,  Battle  of,  33,  143. 
Maggiore,  Lake,  326,  327. 
Maiori,  80,  82,  88,  89. 
Manso  (Marquis  of  Villa),  339- 

340. 
"  Marble  Faun,"  291,  368,  369. 
Margherita,    Queen,    40,    113- 

116,    330. 
Martinengo  -  Cesaresco,     Con- 

tessa,  42,  287,  288. 
Mazzini,    26,    27,    29,    31,    37, 

38. 
McCrackan's  "  Italian  Lakes," 

323,  342. 
McMahan,  Anna,  286. 
Mediaeval  Towns  Series,  289. 
Medusae,  175,  176. 
Michelangelo    Buonarotti,    40, 

149,  158,  159,  371. 
Milan,  31,  101,  102,  133,  314- 

319,  347;    cathedral  of,  317, 

351;  Brera,  317,  318. 
Milton,  336-341. 
Minori,  80,  82,  87,  88,  89. 
Montaigne,   335. 
Monte  Cerreto,  77,  80,  87. 
Monte  Fenestra,  80. 
Monza,  319-321. 
Museo  Nazionale  (Naples),  46, 

47,  51. 

Naples,    15-25,   30,   34,   44-52, 

344,  345,  348.  352,  362,  369. 
Napoleon  IIL,  33. 


Nice,  27,  33. 
Novara,  32,  36. 

Odoacer,  99. 
Odysseus,  71,  72. 
Oliphant,  Mrs.,  286. 
Orcagna,  372,  374. 
Orvieto,   157-161,   163;    cathe- 
dral of,  158-161. 

Palermo,  345. 

Palumbo,  Madame,  77,  79,  80, 
82-84,  87,  88. 

Paestum,  81,  90,  91,  98,  345, 
346,  352. 

Papal  Conclave,  165,  166,  290. 

Papal  States,  30,  36,  39,  169. 

Pater,  Walter,  289. 

Perugia,  67,  98,  134,  155,  343, 
367;  Cambio,  172;  Canon- 
ica,  164,  166;  cathedral,  163, 
167;  Gates  of,  166,  167,  168, 
171;  Etruscan  Wall,  167, 
168,  169;  fountain,  162; 
Griffin  and  Lion  of,  162,  168, 
171;  Oratory  of  San  Ber- 
nardino, 171,  249;  Palazzo 
Pubblico,  162,  168,  172; 
Piazza  di  San  Lorenzo,  162; 
Piazza  Vittorio  Emanuele, 
169;  Pinacoteca,  172;  San 
Ercolano,  169;  tomb  of  Vo- 
lumnii,  174-178;  Via  Appia, 
166.167:  Via  dei  Priori,  172. 

Perugino,  170,  172. 

Petrarch,  334. 

Petrucci,  103. 

Piedmont.  27,  28,  30. 

"  Pippa  Passes,"  361. 

Pinturicchio,  II,  106,  173,  262. 

Pisa,  163,  338,  350,  351,  352, 
353,  362,  372,  374. 

Pisano,  Nicola,  159,  163,  263. 

Pius  II.,  262. 

Pius  IV.,  149. 

Pius  IX.  ("  Pio  Nono  "),  36- 
41.  137. 

Pius  X..  1.3S,  145-147. 

Pompeu,  51,  52,  345. 


398 


Index 


Poor  Clares,  Order  of,  235. 
Portiuncula  (Assisi),  233,  235, 

237,  244,  246,  259. 
Posilipo,  17,  51,  110,  352. 
Positano,  71,  72. 
Pozzuoli,  51,  345,  352. 
Prato  Fiorito,  381. 

Rampolla,  Cardinal,  144,  146. 

Raphael,  159,  160,  170,  172, 
262. 

Ravello,  77-90. 

Ravenna,  99,  355. 

Reid,  Francis  Nevile,  83-85. 

"  Ring  and  the  Book,"  273, 
365. 

Rise  of  the  Communes,  101. 

Rise  of  the  Despots,  102,  163, 
168. 

Riviera  di  Levante,  354,  373. 

Roman  (Holy)  Empire,  127. 

Roman  persecutions,  126,  149. 

Rome,  3,  9,  40,  41,  51,  92-156, 
339,  341,  344,  346,  347, 
352,  367;  Christian,  125, 
126;  Imperial,  124;  Modern, 
128;  Mythical,  123;  a  Re- 
public (modern),  35,  37,  38; 
Republican  (b.  c),  124;  Pa- 
ipal  and  Mediasval,  127;  Pa- 
pal and  Renaissance,  128; 
Antonines,  The,  125;  Arch  of 
Titus,  125;  Arch  of  Con- 
stantine,  125,  148;  Appian 
Way,  124;  Borghese  Gar- 
dens, 105,  112,  117,  136,  346; 
Caius  Cestius,  Pyramid  of, 
108;  Campagna,  108,  144, 
147,  245,  345;  Campus  Mar- 
tins, 121;  Capitol,  92,  148, 
344;  Carthusian  Cloisters, 
149,  150;  Catacombs,  126, 
128,  147;  Churches  of,  106; 
Cloaca  Maxima,  93,  123; 
Coliseum,  92,  125,  148;  Di- 
oscuri, 149;  Doria  Gallery, 
107;  Forum,  92,  123,  148; 
Goethe,  Statue  of,  117; 
Janiculum  Hill,  38,  92,  111; 


Lateran,  The,  106,  159; 
Monte  Mario,  155;  Pan- 
theon, 125;  Piazza  di  Spagna, 
131,  348;  Pincian  Hill,  92, 
93,  95,  155,  344;  Porta  Pin- 
ciana,  112,  117;  Protestant 
Cemetery,  108-110,354;  Quir- 
inal,  136,  137,  139,  145,  148; 
St.  Peter's,  105,  128,  144, 
148;  San  Paolo  Fuori,  108; 
Scala  di  Spagna,  348;  Sis- 
tine  Chapel,  108,  158;  Tem- 
ple of  Castor  and  Pollux, 
124;  Thermae  of  Caracalla, 
125;  Thermae  of  Diocle- 
tian, 105,  125,  140,  149,  150; 
Tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  147; 
Trevi,  Fountain  of,  148;hTrin- 
ita  dei  Monti,  106;  Vatican, 
38,39,41,  1.36,  137,  139,  145, 
160;  Via  Sistina,  106,  112, 
121,  280;  Via  Venti  Settem- 
bre,  40. 

"  Romola,"  291,  367,  370,  371. 

Romulus,  26,  125. 

Rossetti,  173,  290,  300. 

Rufolo,  Palazzo,  84,  85,  86. 

Ruskin,  268,  281,  295,  296, 
326,  349,  371,  372,  389,  390. 

Sabatier,   234.   235,   245,   294. 
Sabines,  The,  97. 
Sabine  mountains,  144. 
Salerno,  80,  81,  90,  352;  Gulf 

of,  63,  82,  88. 
San  Bernardino,  164,  247,  248. 
San  Carlo  Borromeo,  321. 
Santa  Chiara  (Clara),  235,  240, 

241,  247. 
Sardinia,  28;  King  of,  32,  35. 
Sardinian  Kingdom,  29. 
Savonarola,  164,   171. 
Savoy.  27,  33;    House  of,  27, 

28,   29,    112,    116,    137. 
Scanners,  102,  299;    tombs  of, 

30,5. 
Sentensoli.  Jacoba  di,  238-240. 
Serchio,  The.  375,  376. 
Severn,  Joseph,  348,  349,  350. 


Index 


399 


Shakespeare,  309,  313,  334, 
335. 

Shelley,  46,  106,  109,  110,  286, 
348,  350,  351,  356,  381,  383. 

SicUy,  30,  34,  98,  100,  345. 

Siena,  67,  163,  171,  236,  250- 
266,  368;  Baptistery  of  San 
Giovanni,  260;  Cathedral 
of,  261-263;  Belle  Arti,  265, 
266;  Fonte  Gaia,  261,  264; 
Opera  del  Duomo,  261,  264, 
266;  Palace  of  the  Com- 
mune, 263,  264;  Piazza  del 
Duomo,  251;  Races  of  the 
Palio,  260;  San  Domenico, 
Church  of,  253,  254;  Torre 
del  Mangia,  251,  252,  265. 

Siena,  St.  Catherine  of,  251, 
254-259;  House  of,  259; 
Life  of,  294. 

SignorelU,  158,  159,  161. 

Sodoma,  il  (Bazzi),  253,  264, 
265. 

Solferino,  33,  142. 

Soracte,  131,  144. 

Sorrento,  53,  63-70,  90,  247, 
345. 

Spell  of  Italy,  67,  68,  247. 

Spezia,  374. 

Spoleto,  352. 

Story,  286,  382. 

Stresa,  327,  328. 

Symonds,  John  Addington,  04, 
73,  109,  110,  170,  286,  287. 

Symons,  Arthur,  262,  269,  289, 
290. 

Tacitus,  100. 

Taylor,  Argyle,  Miss,  153. 

Tasso,  68,  69,  102,  339,  340. 

Tennyson,  317. 

Teutonic   Invasion,    99-101. 

Thayer,  W.  R.,  287,  289. 

Theodolinda,  326. 

Theodoric,  99,  299. 

Thrasymene,  Lake,  171. 

Tiber.  The,  41,  135;   Valley  of, 

162,  174. 
Ticino,  The,  326. 


Tischbein,  344,  345. 
Tivoli,  108,  143,  144. 
Trees  (tyiaical),  119,  120. 
Trelawny,  353,  354,  362. 
Tremezzo,  323,  324. 
Trevelyan,    "  Defence    of    the 

Roman  Republic,"  35. 
Turin,  27,  31,  35,  39,  329. 
Tuscan  Peasantry,  388,  389. 
Tuscany,  30,  154,  277,  362,  376. 

Umberto  Primo,  40,  45,   113- 

115,  140,  320. 
Umbria,    161,    162,    165,    169, 

178,  245,  246,  259. 
Umbrian  Art,   164,   172-174. 
Umbrians,  The,  97. 
Urban  IV.,   161. 

Vallambrosa,  336,  363. 

Valle  Leventina,  326. 

Vane,  Francis  Fletcher,  375, 
376. 

Vasari,  243,  293,  294. 

Venetia,  33,  312,  355,  362. 

Venice,  341,  343,  365,  366; 
Republic  of,  102. 

Verona,  102,  163,  298-313; 
Amphitheatre,  301,  302;  Ca- 
thedral of,  307;  Church  of 
Sant'  Anastasia,  306;  Church 
of  San  Zeno,  311;  Giardino 
Giusti,  312;  Juliet's  Tomb, 
311,  312;  Palazzo  del  Con- 
siglio,  304;  Palazzo  della 
Ragione,  304;  Piazza  Erbe, 
303;  Piazza  dei  Signori,  304; 
Visconti,  the,  302. 

Vernon  Lee,  289,  296. 

Vesuvius,  15,  17,  26,  52. 

Viareggio,  109,  354,  374. 

Villa,^383. 

Villa  Carlotta,  324. 

Villa  Cercola,  55-63. 

Villa  d'Este,  119,  144. 

Villa  Franca,  Peace  of,  33,  364. 

Villa  Landor,  357,  358,  360, 
361. 

Vittorio  Emanuele  II.,  24,  28, 


400 


Index 


32,  33,  35,  36,  40,  98,  116, 
137,    139. 
Vittorio   Emanuele    III.,    112, 
113,   140,  320. 

"  Walks  in  Rome,"  92,  93,  108. 
Ward,  Mrs.  H.,  291. 


Wars  of  the  Towns,  101. 
Wharton,  Mrs.  E.,  291. 
Whittinghill,     Dr.    and 

153. 
Wordsworth,  67,  365. 
Wotton,  Sir  Henry,  337. 


Mrs., 


r 


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